


This Side of the Rain

by Erinye



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2018-09-11 17:17:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 114,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8999776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erinye/pseuds/Erinye
Summary: When Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell disappear, others are left to deal with the consequences of the return of magic to England: this side of the rain, Childermass and Segundus must work together for the greater good, but their paths have crossed many times over the years and feelings have been crushed in the process.A tale of the man who asked The Question and set the revival of English magic in motion, and of the man who has always seemed to know where to look for answers - except to his own heart’s desires.





	1. Dawn of a New England

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas!
> 
> And many thanks to **Nasturtian** (on [Ao3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nasturtian/pseuds/Nasturtian) and [Tumblr](https://nasturtian.tumblr.com/)), who is doing a marvellous and inspiring job of betaing my story, and thus nurtures my obsession over the Johns. 
> 
> And here's my [Tumblr](https://erinyewrites.tumblr.com/)!

_March 19 th, 1817_

 

On the third Wednesday of March, fifty or so magicians, or would-be magicians, met at the Olde Starre Inn in York. Some of them - those who called themselves _gentlemen_ and whose sensibilities were sorely hurt by the sight of shopkeepers, farmers, and all kinds of inconsequential, coarse people invading the first-floor quarters in Stonegate - had been accustomed to meet on the third Wednesday of each month under the renowned name of the Learned Society of York Magicians. It had all ended, though, some ten years before, when the stones of York Cathedral had been brought to life by the first magician to appear in England, Mr Norrell. At the time most of those gentlemen had already been of a respectable age and a few could have been described as laudably ancient. Ten years later, five of them were dead, three had left York (one of them leaving behind his irate creditors), and only two had found other pursuits and felt no curiosity at all when the announcement had appeared on the York Chronicle. Of the gentlemen who responded to the announcement, a few had considerably less hair on their heads, though one had grown a beard to compensate the loss; there were more wrinkles, a hint or two of gout, rheumatisms. A squire had lost his middle-finger - not by consorting with faeries, but to his darling dog.

In sum, they had changed; still they seemed to have changed less than England had done since the return of magic. Old Mr Albutt, for instance, was still able to fall fast asleep within five minutes of his arrival, seated in his old place by one of the fireplaces; indeed he was one of the few gentlemen who had retained their traditional seats before the flood of newcomers. Mr Honeyfoot and Mr Segundus had not been able to accomplish as much and they had to content themselves with a little dais in the dampest corner of the room. Dr Foxcastle was forced to share it with them. He was still a very large man and his chin trembled as it had always done when he raised his booming voice, but Segundus found that Dr Foxcastle’s breath had turned sour and that he kept squeezing his eyes to put Segundus’s face into focus.      

John Segundus had changed, too, and it was as shocking a change as many others, but in ten years his appearance had remained almost the same. For a start, he had not lost his hair, though somehow its brown was slightly dulled, and he had not grown a beard, though he may have tried once, with silly reasons and sillier results, much to his embarrassment; at least only a few servants had witnessed it. His limbs were still slender and supple - walking he had always loved and even if his patroness had put two horses in the stables at Starecross and a small carriage was at Segundus’s disposal to conduct his business, he generally preferred to go by foot. In Mr Honeyfoot’s humble opinion it was proof of an obstinate and inexplicable tendency, on Mr Segundus’s part, to never wholly part with the past.

Which, Segundus inferred, was also the reason why he had asked _the_ question, ten years ago. First to the members of the Learned Society, then to Mr Norrell himself. The latter’s answer, and what had followed, had changed the history of English magic forever. Better, it had put that history on the move once again.

_The question which started everything_.

Mr Segundus dared think of it as such from time to time, but only in the privacy of his own head, and never aloud. He was not as conceited as to presume that without his question there would not have been a practical magician in England, and then two. Only, perhaps, his involvement would have been of a different nature.

“Were you expecting that, Mr Segundus?” asked Mr Honeyfoot, while they were pressed together by the commotion that still reigned over the hall.

People were supposed to leave now, return to their homes and think about what to do with the revelation John Childermass had brought to them - and of his proposal. They were expected to come back with an answer on the morrow - the fact that a former servant could dictate such strict terms to them had done little to endear Childermass to the finest members of his audience, the same who could suddenly recall certain little slights they had had to suffer at his hands when he had been Norrell’s man.  

Many lingered though, trying to catch another glimpse of Vinculus’s tattooed chest - the blue marks peeked from the shirt he had sloppily buttoned at Childermass’s command; or trying _not_ to get another peep of the street sorcerer’s flesh. Others were still arguing about all that offended them - the Raven King’s return, Strange and Norrell’s disappearance together with Hurtfew library, Childermass’s manners; some wanted to boast of the tricks they had accomplished since magic had flooded back into England or simply discuss their newfound skills with other magicians. The farmers had apparently reached an agreement, but it concerned cows and not magic. The excitable young man seemed on the point of bursting with exhilaration and kept hopping around, joining uninvited all conversations, offering his opinion, his help, his wand - he believed a wand was required of a magician and was very much surprised to discover that no one had carried his to the meeting (while he, of course, had). Around Miss Redruth’s red velvet gown orbited a few young men, who seemed quite pleased to let her father’s grey-haired, respectable dog drool on their shoes as long as they could listen to her passionate apologia of _His Grace_ John Uskglass.      

Segundus did not know _which_ part of this he should have been expecting: whether the quarrels between Strangites and Norrellites, which were clearly continuing on the ground floor and in the street, or the variety of people who had answered John Childermass’s summons; or, again, that John Childermass would reveal himself as the author of the paragraph on the York Chronicles.

“No, I did not think of it,” Segundus said, and it was not a blatant lie, because he had done his best to put out of his mind the nagging certainty that Childermass would be at the meeting.

“To think of a man being a book!” Mr Honeyfoot sighed with some longing, because it had been ten years since he had been able to put his hands and eyes on a book of magic. But that probably reminded him that a certain agreement was void now: “We’re fellow magicians again, Mr Segundus,” he declared with shy pride.

“That we are,” Segundus agreed.

But he believed that he and Mr Honeyfoot had done some good together for the past few years, with or without Mr Norrell’s - and Childermass’s - approval, and he had been glad to think of Mr Honeyfoot as his fellow, _his friend_ , long before this day. He said nothing of it, since an open discussion of their friendship would have embarrassed them both.

Yet he did what he could to make space for Mr Honeyfoot, who was in danger of being crushed against the oak-panelled wall by some of the rowdier folks there. They had agreed on leaving and have tea at Mr Honeyfoot’s, where they would be able to debate what had happened at the inn without having to shout or wrestle. Additionally, though he said nothing to that end, it was plain that Mr Honeyfoot very much wished to get home to Mrs Honeyfoot and tell her that he was a magician again if he desired it, and to ask for her opinion on the matter. But their progress toward the stairs was greatly slowed down and their feet were crushed, their backs elbowed, and courtesy was quite forgotten in the turmoil of the reborn Learned Society of York Magicians - because it _was_ reborn at the hand of John Childermass, whether Dr Foxcastle liked it or not.

At last there was an opening in the crowd and Mr Honeyfoot was propelled forward; Segundus would have followed him, but again he found himself stuck despite his polite appeals that he might allowed to pass. He saw Mr Honeyfoot on the landing, looking around for him, and had almost resolved to raise his voice and demand to not be pushed and pulled from all parts, when Childermass appeared at his side.

If he had felt trapped for the last few minutes, Segundus found that he was now cornered - appropriately so, _cornering_ being one of Childermass’s foremost talents: few could display such a flair for driving people into corners, either literal or metaphorical ones, and basically make them act as _he_ supposed they should.

Oh the things Childermass made people do.

Segundus noticed that Childermass looked hardly troubled by the unruliness of the magicians around them. In fact, he seemed satisfied with the upheaval his speech had kindled, and quite unruffled - but then he was not a man who would let himself be troubled without very good cause and Segundus should not have expected anything less from him.

They were now face to face and Segundus wondered with some horror if he was expected to speak first, but Childermass spared him that at least.

“I would be grateful for the chance to speak alone with you, sir,” said Childermass, collectedly.

He had not divested himself of his dark coat, despite the fact that the air in the room had grown too hot and Segundus could feel himself sweating under his armpits and down his back. Childermass was looking at him, neither lazily nor intently, but rather with an air of business; he clearly waited for an answer, but he would not wait long.

“Gratitude is hardly one of your stronger traits,” Segundus replied.

His voice, he knew, lacked of authority: it was soft, and would turn shrill and ridiculous when he was upset; yet his words proved well-aimed, for he saw some anger flare on Childermass’s face. Not in his eyes, which remained as inscrutable as they had ever been, but in the tightening of the jaw, a flicker of the muscle in his cheek. It was short-lived though, one fleeting surge of emotion, and Childermass had already schooled his features into indifference.

“If I have displeased you...” he started, in a show of reasonableness which made Segundus feel quite unreasonable.

“Yes, I’m very much displeased,” he said, realising immediately that he had done badly for himself, as usual: spoken too unguardedly, with his heart in his throat and the colour rising to his cheeks. “If you would excuse me,” he added, though he did not think he could really move away.

But Childermass, as if he had been Moses or Hugh Littlewood[1], took a step back and then somehow cleared the way for Segundus to flee. That was another of Childermass’s useful talents: _finding a way, and if there is none he wedges himself in and creates a new one to serve his purposes._

On the landing Segundus made another mistake: he looked back to where Childermass had stood at his side, a few moments before, and found that he was already engaged in conversation with a group of new magicians, among them Miss Redruth. Childermass’s dark, one-sided grin flashed again on his mouth, once, twice, and then Segundus hurried down the stairs as if he was falling from them.

 

*

 

_February 18 th, 1817_

 

In retrospect, he should not have given Lucy the afternoon off.

She would not be back until the next morning, and with the cook in Leeds for her sister’s marriage and Charles sent to London with Sir Walter Pole and his wife, Starecross was quite empty.

Yet he had not had any heart to deny Lucy a visit to her old mother and he still thought that Charles’s level-headedness would serve Sir Walter very well. Only God knew what was going on between husband and wife after the latter had been freed from the enchantment, but Sir Walter had not seemed fit to deal with any practical matter for the time being, while his own coachman was a harebrained fellow who could not drive on Yorkshire roads without endangering the carriage and its occupants.

Charles would see to it and make sure that Lady Pole wanted for nothing on their way to London. Segundus felt that he owed her that at least, after all she had been through and how they had failed her, taking such a long time to understand what she had been suffering. The day before, while he helped her into her husband’s carriage, there had been no rose upon her mouth; still, another kind of silence had descended upon the lady and Segundus had felt sorry for her.

When Segundus sat down to his cup of tea, it had been raining for hours. He did not mind having to prepare his own tea: he had been doing without any servant for most of his life and he had bachelor’s habits he was reluctant to part with. He liked to sit in the kitchen, for instance, while the cook usually chased him out of it when she was around. The smell of the innumerable fires lit in the place, the flour lining the crevices of the table, the dark halo of soot on the ceiling, the blended scent of herbs, pickled onions, cheese - all this had a soothing effect upon him, reminding him of the time when he had been a child seeking solace from his father’s strictness.

Today even the kitchen felt alien and remote though, as if the magic unleashed in the house only three days before still lingered in corners and hid in the cupboards behind the rows of jars where vegetables and fruits yellowed, or trapped between the rafters like wisps of smoke, unfurling its tender tendrils at the edge of one’s mind, probing, probing, a wild yet toothless thing.   

And maybe this would be what England would feel like from now on.

When his lips touched the hot brim, Segundus shuddered and put down the cup so hurriedly that it made the saucer rattle. He pressed his knuckles against his mouth as if to keep it from leaving his face, while he drew in a shaky breath. He wondered how long he would be affected by the thought. He had seen Mr Honeyfoot fingering his ears, pinching their lobes until they turned as red as lobsters. Sir Walter had once tried to talk with him about his short experience of blindness, but the embarrassment - and the lasting horror of it - had been more than either of them could endure, so they had left the matter alone[2].

_No_ , he reflected while he sipped his tea, he should have made other arrangements. It was too soon to find himself alone in a great, old house, one that under soft carpets, pretty furniture, and decent paintings still seem to retain its former eccentricity, as if one had just to peel away the merry glow of the refurbishing to find the queer, rambling look the house had had when Segundus had first set foot in it. It was as depressing a thought as when he worked in the garden only to find that weeds had already grown back despite his cares.

He finished his tea and washed the cup, trying to think of an occupation which would make it easier to wait till the morrow for Lucy’s return - that is if the servant would be able to walk all the way from the village to the Hall. The whole house was alive to the rain, clattering and sighing under the downpour, all the window panes glittering, the smell of soaked earth seeping in and following Segundus from room to room. He did not like the idea of Lucy catching a cold or tramping in the mud only because she had to hurry back to his master, who was afraid of an empty old house. Better for her to wait until the road would be less perilous: the cook had left pie and cold mutton in the pantry, he had sherry to take after his meals, and fresh linens for his bed.

Only he regretted that he had not taken up Mr Honeyfoot’s offer to be his guest for a few days. It had felt good, then, to say that he did not mean to leave his post, especially now, when magic had been returned to England and others might seek for help. He had not known exactly what he had meant then, but he thought he understood it better when he opened the door and found John Childermass standing in the rain.

In truth Segundus had already been on his feet when the knock came. He had heard the horses neigh and their disquiet had alarmed him, since they were good Yorkshire animals which would not be frightened by rain, however abundant. Before he could don his coat and go check the stables, someone was knocking at the door.  

Unlike most people Segundus knew, Childermass always looked little bothered by rain, wind, or snow. He had, Segundus reasoned, a sheep’s disregard for bad weather, the lazy, brooding insolence of a ruminant unwilling to make any effort to get out of rain. Even now Childermass did not press to enter the house, regardless of his soaked-through clothes and the tiredness inscribed on his pale face, where a thin, silvery scar seemed almost to shine in the rain (a curious thing that it had healed so well, for Segundus remembered that the cut had been very ugly and Childermass very unconcerned with treating it properly).

“Mr Segundus,” he said, tilting his head.

There was a droop to Childermass’s shoulders which spoke of sleepless nights and days on the road. Segundus had not seen him since Lady Pole’s finger had been restored to its rightful place, nor had he received any word after Childermass had left in a great hurry. Not that there had ever been anything like a correspondence between him and Childermass; still Segundus would have welcomed the briefest of notes.

Instead he had to deal with Childermass in the flesh and sodden garments.

For a moment Segundus thought that the exhaustion had suddenly got the better of Childermass, for he saw him sway. He moved forward without thinking, his arms reaching for the man, offering support. As if in a pantomime of what it had always been between them (their wills moving back and forward, never quite touching), Childermass took a step back and straightened himself, at first refusing to meet Segundus’s eyes. And when he did, the gaze he lifted on Segundus was almost unendurable in its openness: there was shock and misery in it, and a kind of bleakness which made Segundus flinch at the sight.

“They’re gone,” Childermass said and his voice was that of a man who has not spoken in days.

“Come in,” Segundus replied, again unthinkingly.

He did not need to ask who _they_ were, while he very much wished to go back inside and offer the man what comfort he could. So, once Childermass stepped in, it was as if a spell had broken and Segundus could now turn to practical concerns. He sniffed at the stench of sopping clothes and frowned at the muddy water streaking the floor in Childermass’s wake, and was already thinking about dry garments, tea, and something to eat.

“There, there,” he said, steering Childermass toward the kitchen while he was helping him out of his coat. “Allow me to take this off and the boots too, leaving mud prints everywhere won’t do at all, especially when I find myself without any help in the house.”

Childermass grunted something which might have been assent or scorn for his domestic concern, but he did not seem surprised. He had probably guessed that there were no servants in the house, since Segundus had answered the door himself.

Childermass was quite docile, though. He let Segundus strip him of his coat, he took off his hat, then stepped out of his boots and went as far as to put them aside before rolling his wet stockings down his calves and folding them to lie with his boots. It was always a little surprising to notice that Childermass’s untidiness was only apparent; he was in fact one of the neatest men Segundus knew, and the ragged, unkempt feeling one got looking at Childermass had more to do with a certain wildness in his eyes, an arrogance in his gait, a roughness in his voice.

Now all was subdued, though; the sight of Childermass’s naked feet made Segundus’s chest clench at their vulnerability.

“Go sit in the kitchen. There’s still some tea in the teapot, but it will be cold by now,” he sighed, a hand carding through his hair - a few moments in the rain and it already felt unpleasantly damp. “I’ll bring you some spare clothes, just go sit by the fire.”

He did not wait for Childermass to do as he was told, but made for the stairs, grateful for that short time alone searching through closets and chests. When he returned to the ground floor and headed for the kitchen, Segundus’s arms were full of clothes and blankets, since he had been unable to focus on what could fit the man under his roof, so he had picked up this and that, hoping that something would do.

Childermass turned his head when Segundus entered the kitchen.

“Thank you Mr Segundus” he said, already looking more collected than he had done at the door, “I am afraid I’m inconveniencing you far too much.”

“You aren’t,” Segundus spluttered, then shook his head. “I couldn’t leave you in the rain, could I?”

“A lesser man would have,” Childermass pointed out.

His eyes followed Segundus as he draped the clothes and the blankets over a couple of chairs. As usual, Childermass’s gaze possessed a physical heaviness which made him self-conscious.

“Not a gentleman, surely,” Segundus said, fidgeting under the weight of the man’s eyes. “I’ll make tea. Do you think you could stomach some bread? Or there’s pie and I could make you eggs...”

“Tea will be enough,” Childermass grunted.

“It won’t,” Segundus said. “You must take some bread at least.”

“I beg you not to fret,” Childermass said, but his tone lacked the necessary animosity to irk Segundus, so that he found it easy to ignore it. Instead he put the kettle on the stove, then cut a few slices of bread. He noticed that his hold on the knife was not firm, but speaking to Childermass or even looking at him would be worse for his nerves. He also cut a chunk of butter to go with the bread, then poured the boiling water in the teapot.

He was disappointed when he saw that Childermass had disregarded his advice and kept his wet clothes on, not even taking a look at what he had brought for him from his own wardrobe. At least he had moved the chair closer to the fireplace and taken off his waistcoat, but his shirt clung heavily to his back and surely his breeches were as soaked as the rest of him.

He either did not hear Segundus approach or did not think it important to notice him. He kept his eyes on the fire, frowning at the sparks which leapt over the grate, his naked feet growing pink at the proximity of the flames, and Segundus had to clear his throat to put the cup into his hands. Childermass gulped the tea down, but rolled his eyes at the sight of the plate of bread and butter Segundus had placed on the table.

“It might be too trivial for you, Mr Childermass,” Segundus said, feeling that Childermass found him ridiculous and that his mind was wandering far off, following Strange and Norrell wherever they had gone, “but I would like to make sure that you don’t starve in my house. Or catch pneumonia. Your clothes should come off now.”

“Should they,” Childermass murmured.

He did sound worn-out. Segundus wondered if he had spent the last three days chasing England’s two magicians. He still did not know what had happened, but he felt certain that the fairy gentleman with the thistle-down hair was dead - he could conceive no other reason for the end of all the enchantments they had suffered at his hands. That was something he had already worked out by himself shortly after they had been released from the enchantments. He was also inclined to think that the thistle-down-haired gentleman’s death was connected with the disappearance of Strange and Norrell of which Childermass had spoken.

And Segundus wanted to know more, but he could see that questioning Childermass would not do. If Childermass wanted to talk about it, he would do it in his own time and his own way, as he did most things.

It fell on Segundus to take care of everything now that Childermass seemed to keep himself together only by the flimsiest of threads. Physical exhaustion had a part in it, but there was more; there was an air of bewilderment about him, as if he had no inkling of what he was supposed to do next. It was awful to see Childermass at a loss and Segundus did not take any pleasure in the other man’s unprecedented powerlessness.

He also suspected that Childermass’s sharp perceptiveness was almost a disadvantage at this point.

There was too much magic around, too much and too suddenly, as if the dam had broken and magic was flooding back, and people like Childermass must be affected by it, dazed by the sheer amount of magic trickling and bubbling, rippling and churning all around them. Segundus himself was almost debilitated by it, though the months Lady Pole - who had been a living enchantment after all, and clearly a most powerful one - had spent at Starecross had left him more used to this.

It started quite naturally, with Segundus thinking that his own hands would do a better job of unbuttoning Childermass’s shirt, considering that Childermass’s were probably half-stiff with cold and the buttons looked small and difficult. So he leant down and pulled the necktie apart, unwinding it and peeling it off Childermass’s skin. He did not think of looking at Childermass’s face, but he noticed something which could have been a gasp being forced down Childermass’s pale throat - and how tense the tendons of his neck became after that.

_I might be drunk on tea_ , Segundus thought when he felt a sort of lightness blooming in his head and in his hands, as if soap bubbles could take flight from the tips of his fingers at any moment; a kind of unsteadiness which could be confused with happiness if he was not careful enough. His fingertips worked on the buttons, disengaging them one after the other, slipping inadvertently against damp skin, and still it did not feel queer to undress a man in the kitchen and hear his every breath so neatly.

It was only when Childermass’s hands - the elegant, slim fingers Segundus could never fail to notice - closed on Segundus’s wrists that it changed. It had felt chaste and peaceful, now there was a demand in Childermass’s hold on his wrists. The pressure of his fingers made Segundus aware of the acceleration in his heartbeat. He lifted his head in answer to Childermass’s mute request.

The blackness in Childermass’s eyes did it, that and the unmistakable hum of Childermass’s magic - which, to Segundus, felt like rain-magic, moor-magic, all crushed heather and wet wool, tobacco and mossy rocks. He drew it in and it was heady, slightly dangerous.

“Are you trying to enchant me, sir?” he asked in all seriousness.

Segundus would have never asked such a frivolous question if he had not felt so distracted by the grip of the other magician’s magic, yet Childermass did not seem displeased. A little surprised yes, his pupils blown and his mouth creasing, then he laughed, surprising Segundus in turn.

“I apologise. At times I forget how perceptive you are,” Childermass admitted, a little sheepishly. Then his magic turned fainter and receded in the background of Segundus’s mind. Not Childermass’s pull on his wrists, though; on the contrary that seemed to find a purpose - which was to draw Segundus closer, while Childermass straightened his back. “I wasn’t trying to enchant you,” Childermass said, “but I was thinking if there was anything I could do to move this upstairs without bothering with walking corridors and climbing stairs.”

“ _This_ ,” Segundus repeated, feeling his cheeks heat up.

“Yes, this,” Childermass said and his eyes dropped to Segundus’s mouth.

Segundus was irked by the assumption that there was _something_ which would lead to _something else_ at some point, which in turn would lead to _something more_ , and so on, a long string of _somethings_ Childermass clearly felt confident about. It would have been enough to make Segundus shrink away, but then he realised that Childermass’s light, half-taunting and yet controlling tone was a crumbling façade.

Underneath, the other magician looked at him in earnest, and the way his thumbs were drawing circles on Segundus’s wrists was as insistent as a plea. He could almost see the two Childermasses looking out at him: the one almost despairing, too intense for his own good - and Segundus’s for that matter; the other musing upon his own misery with a sardonic half-smile.

And when Segundus covered Childermass’s lips with his own, he kissed them both.

Childermass’s lips were firm, breath-warm, and they opened the moment Segundus’s mouth touched them. Childermass made a small, hungry noise, and the kiss turned wet and dirty, with a hint of teeth, the way Childermass liked it. He still did not lose his hold on Segundus’s wrists, as if he was not sure that he would not need to trap him again. Or maybe he was restraining himself, keeping his hands from wandering; that, at least, was something Segundus was grateful for, because he ached to touch Childermass and that would not bode well.

This was how Segundus found the strength to evade the kiss, taking a step back, but then Childermass rose to his feet like a puppet put into motion by the pulling on its strings - and the strings were their hands, now they were _holding hands_ and Childermass’s fingers were intertwined with his. It was almost unbearable.

“Let me,” Childermass begged him, again too close, overbearing despite the fact that he was only slightly taller than Segundus and certainly not bigger.

He eventually let Segundus’s hands go, but only to cradle his head, wrapping it in his long fingers - firmly, but gently, as if he was holding an egg and trying not to break it or let it slip onto the floor. And indeed Segundus felt as if his head might hatch at any moment, pulsing with warm, living colours as it was when Childermass resumed their kiss.

It was slower than the first and Segundus hazily guessed that Childermass was trying to reassure him. _Very stupid of him_ , Segundus thought while his hands fell to Childermass’s waist of their own volition. _There’s nothing reassuring about his tenderness_. Childermass felt thinner under his touch, his ribs poking out of his chest when Segundus’s hands moved to part the hems of his shirt and push them aside.

He must have mumbled something about wet clothes needing to be taken off, because Childermass grinned against his mouth before taking a step back and shrugging the shirt off his shoulders. He hung it over the fireplace with the waistcoat, then turned a wolfish stare upon Segundus.

“Let me take you upstairs,” he said, while one stride was enough to close again the distance between them. And this time Childermass flattened himself against him - not that Segundus was wondering what would ever happen upstairs, but still it came as a shock to feel the man squeeze his rump so rudely and press their erections together. _Vulgar_ , it was vulgar and Childermass was a vulgar man, and presuming too much, and then it was exactly what Segundus wanted, the smell of earth and rain, the heated gaze boring into his face, the friction growing intolerable.  

If he had been asked, he would have stated that Childermass’s eyes would be his undoing. That the man’s gaze would leave him with no choice but take what he was given, mindless of consequences. That it would pin him down, for the hidden, molten warmth of Childermass’s eyes would ensnare Segundus’s best judgement in a moment.

Then Segundus’s world turned upside down, because Childermass closed his eyes and just held him, breathing quietly, his grip turning into a caress, their bodies trembling together on the edge. And it was not any better, despite the fact that with his eyes closed Childermass lost half his power, for it had always been about him watching, watching and biding his time, lurking and observing, never overseeing, unforgetting and unforgiving, always ten steps ahead of anyone else.

Still, the very moment Childermass relinquished that power and blindly sought Segundus’s mouth, Segundus lost whatever battle he was fighting against himself. With his eyes closed and his face suddenly naked, for it was no longer guarded by the shrewdness of his gaze, Childermass won. Segundus made him tilt his head to kiss his eyelids, and felt the long lashes flutter against his lips, the way Childermass’s fingers dug into his body, and how he gasped at that lightest, silliest of touches.            

“Please, would you...will you...” Childermass begged, again trying to catch Segundus’s mouth.

“Upstairs,” Segundus said, marvelling at how hoarse his voice sounded to his ears.

When Childermass reopened his eyes they were unfocused, but they sobered after he nodded at the curt invitation. They parted and Segundus would have liked to take Childermass’s hand, but he felt clumsy and embarrassed. He also disliked the idea of walking in his breeches parading his state, despite the fact that Childermass threw an appreciative glance at his crotch.

“If you would follow me,” Segundus stammered, before snatching a candle holder from a shelf, setting the candle alight, and hurrying out of the kitchen.

He was hardly out in the hall when Childermass caught up with him, seized the candle, and gently spun Segundus around. He kissed him again, then urged him backward toward the stairs. Segundus thought that this was hardly a proper way to move around the house, since they were bound to trip over some piece of furniture or carpet, and it would not do to break their necks on the stairs. But Childermass seemed never to lose his sense of direction (a marvellous feat in a house as labyrinthine as this one, but then Childermass was used to Hurtfew), despite the fact that he kept kissing and fondling, now urging and now stalling, and Segundus realised that his waistcoat and his breeches were being unbuttoned, the former was already down his shoulders when Childermass cornered him against the door to his own room.

“I thought of you,” Childermass grunted, as if it was some obscure fault of Segundus’s.

Segundus meant to protest, but a moment later they were tumbling inside his bedroom and his waistcoat was discarded. Childermass did not spare a single glance to the room, but looked at him for a ridiculously long moment. Then he caressed Segundus’s face with the back of his hand, muttering something which could have been Segundus’s Christian name - a possibility that shook Segundus to the core and left him quivering in Childermass’s arms.

They divested each other of their clothing piece by piece, again encumbered by the business of kissing, something which seemed even more urgent now that an increasing amount of skin was being revealed. Childermass did not seem willing to part from Segundus more than it was strictly necessary, to the point that Segundus felt his whole body tingling from Childermass’s stubble, his lips swollen, his neck burning with the tender bites Childermass laid there. And as soon as they were both completely naked Childermass pressed him against the mattress, as if he wanted to melt Segundus whole, knead him like pliant dough.

Childermass’s body was still damp, unpleasantly cold in places, but warming up quickly. His cock was the warmest part of him, nudging hot against Segundus’s, poking at his thighs, rubbing against his stomach. There was still his magic lingering at the edges and sometimes Segundus’s mind caught in it, and then he felt Childermass’s touch somewhat magnified and heard himself moan louder. It was briefly after one of those glorious moment that Segundus saw Childermass sucking at his own fingers, then hooking one of his legs under the knee and pushing it upward. Childermass planted a kiss on his chest, while he crouched and slipped his hand between Segundus’s legs, his fingers already moving lower, parting flesh.

“No, stop” Segundus said, very softly in truth.

Yet it was as if Childermass had been whipped.

There was a sharp intake of breath, then Childermass’s cheekbones darkened - a rare, curious occurrence. He took both his hands away from where he had been touching Segundus. He lifted his head, slowly taking in the sight beneath him; Segundus would not be surprised if the man could examine his heart as distinctly as if it was sewn in plain sight upon his chest.

But whatever Childermass saw, it made his lips set.

“I understand,” he said after a while, speaking as quietly as Segundus had done.

He disguised the hurt which had been so plain, so raw a moment before, and gingerly moved down Segundus’s body, still not taking his eyes off him. A certain sharpness was back to Childermass’s features, making him more like his usual self. And then he was also back to bartering his way to what he wanted:

“Let me do this for you,” he coaxed, kneeling on the bed between Segundus’s legs, reaching the inside of Segundus’s thigh to put his mouth were the flesh was softer, never hardened by a riding habit as Childermass’s own was. “I will make it good,” he murmured, while his hands settled warm on Segundus’s hips - not restraining, only holding. “I will make it so good for you, I promise.”

At these words Segundus felt a bubble of hysterical laughter in his throat, for everything Childermass’s hands, mouth, and cock had ever done to him had been good, and he did not need any persuasion on the subject. He pressed his head back against the bed, while his hand slipped down and found Childermass’s hair. It felt damp under his palm, and unclean, but he plunged his fingers in until he had seized the man’s head and pressed it down.

It did not take more than this for Childermass to take him into his mouth. The sudden, shocking warmth which engulfed Segundus’s cock made him cry. Childermass hummed in approval around him, the sound reverberating straight up Segundus’s cock and brain, taking his breath away.

He realised that he had gripped Childermass's hair in a way which was bound to be painful, but it only seemed to spur Childermass further on: he sucked him in without shame, tautening his cheeks, drawing his mouth back and forth, his tongue flat against the underside, then wickedly probing the slit on the top when he almost let Segundus’s cock slip from his lips.

Segundus whined at the feeling of the air hitting his erection, wet with Childermass’s spit. The sight of his cock resting against Childermass’s lips, both red and slippery, made him beg:

“Oh please, please,” he babbled, his fingers irretrievably entangled in the man’s hair.

Childermass licked a strip along his cock, starting from the root and finishing with a short sucking at the swollen head. Segundus bit his lower lip at that and brought his other hand to Childermass’s head.

“I will take care of you,” Childermass promised gently, and turned his head slightly to kiss Segundus’s wrists, first one and then the other, before lowering his mouth again.

It went on like this, Segundus holding Childermass’s head until it was too much and he let his hands fall against the blankets, which he fisted and pulled while his body caught fire and burnt hotter and hotter. A wise, wise mouth, Childermass’s was, wisely holding him back when he was almost done for, and then carrying him further, breath halting and stuttering, his back arching as if such a pleasure was plucking him out of his body. He felt knots tightening in his flesh, his stones heavy in Childermass’s palm, his nipples untouched and yet taut, his heart an anchor fastening him to earth.

He spilled in Childermass’s mouth, almost bending in two with the force of it, and felt Childermass swallow around him, which only seemed to make him spurt more. Childermass sucked him through it, until Segundus fell back onto the bed in a quivering mess, and lapped him thoroughly when it was finished.

Then Childermass rolled onto his side, taking his weight off Segundus and settling himself so that they were almost face to face. He seemed on the verge of speaking, before something passed upon his face and what he said was probably not what he had meant at first.

“Allow me to clean you.”

His voice was very low and very raw, and there was a strain to it which made Segundus turn his head to better study him. He saw Childermass’s lips and chin glossy, his pupils very large, and he glanced down to see his cock dark with excitement. Without a second thought, Segundus slipped his hand between them.

Childermass looked surprised, as if he had not expected to be touched at all. Which was maddening, and also distressing, because Segundus could not think of Childermass leaving the bed right now, so Childermass should not have thought about that either, _hygiene be damned_. Then Childermass gasped and thrust into his loose fist, so Segundus tightened his hold until Childermass hid his face against his shoulder.

It was over too soon, for Childermass was over-excited, and also exhausted, and once Segundus was holding him firmly he worked himself furiously toward orgasm. Segundus would have liked more time to get it right and pleasant, but he understood that Childermass’s control was hair-thin by now, so it was fast and harsh, and Childermass bit down on his bare shoulder when he came over Segundus hand, hip, and blankets.

Then he stilled.

“Do you want me to go?” he asked when he had not regained his breath yet. Segundus flinched.

“How can you ask?” he said accusingly, thinking of Childermass’s seed still on his skin.

“I...” Childermass swore under his breath, then pressed his face against the blanket for a moment. When he glanced back at Segundus he looked apologetic. “I must ask you, for I don’t know what you desire.”

_Liar_ , Segundus thought.

“I desire you to stay,” he replied quietly. “For the night.”

It did not mean that Childermass had to remain any longer. He did not mean that Childermass had to leave in the morning either.

It only meant that Segundus was allowed to shift closer and toss his arm around his waist, while he put his other hand on Childermass’s chest, glad of that still-rushed heartbeat against his palm. He closed his eyes, despite the feeling that the other magician was observing him very attentively. Then Childermass relaxed against him and - quite singularly - kissed the top of his head.

“Sleep then, Mr Segundus.”

_And still you will not you call me John_ , Segundus thought, but the faint, bitter taste of it was already fading in the grey, grey softness of sleep - and the lulling sound of rain, for the rain had never stopped though Segundus had not been thinking of it except for the taste of Childermass’s magic and Childermass’s skin, and the smell in Childermass’s hair. The last thing he was aware of was Childermass pulling the blankets around the both of them, and breathing warm against his ear. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Hugh Littlewood had been a follower of the Raven King. Though a minor character in the events which revolved around the King in the North, and an obscure essayist, he apparently designed (or more probably perfected) a spell to part waters. A most interesting one, according to many commentators, except that it worked only on small quantities of liquid - about three cups at a time. Littlewood drowned in the North Sea at Robin Hood’s Bay, apparently while he was trying to enlarge the scope of his water-parting spell, which had become the main obsession of his later years.
> 
> [2] In _Sir Walter Pole: A Biography_ , the anonymous author claims that Sir Walter Pole took to wearing dark glasses after what happened at Starecross. Though the anecdote might be spurious, it is altogether interesting that it does record such a detail, since a truthful and complete record of the events at Starecross would appear in print only later on, and Sir Walter’s temporary blindness (and in truth his very presence at Starecross) had not been common knowledge at the time.


	2. The Man Who Asked the Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, and a first (second) meeting.

_February 19 th, 1817_

 

Of all the things which had ever woken Segundus from his sleep, this was the strangest.

And this despite the fact that the years he had spent in Mrs Pleasance’s garret in Lady Peckett’s yard had provided him with a wide-ranging experience of awakenings. He could mention, for instance, that time when the two young girls working in the house had concocted some mischievous device to taunt his ambition as a magician, and they had made it explode just outside his door. It had taken all his patience to convince Mrs Pleasance not to dismiss the girls from their position. And this had led to another strange awakening, this time featuring the two maids barging into his rooms, mindless of his being still in his nightshirt, with trays heavy with buttered scones, delicacies, gingerbread, and hot chocolate, a small banquet paid with their savings that they offered him with many thanks, blushing, and giggles.

Another time, during an especially hot summer, he had forgotten to close the window and a stray cat had jumped into his bed, scratched his face, then started to meow as if Segundus had been slaughtering someone in his bedroom. Which, considering that he had been largely known for his interest in practical magic, had alarmed the whole establishment, brought men to his doors, and ended up with him employing all his patience to convince Mrs Pleasance not to drown the cat in the Ouse, on the ground that in addition to the fact that Segundus did not think a black cat was bound to bring bad luck to the house, the poor beast had a white sock so it did not really qualify as black cat (flour might have had a part in it).  

As for London, where Segundus had lived before moving to York, such a city hardly lacked strange occurrences to wake one up.

Still, he had never waken to the sound of someone scribbling furiously on paper - it was not the kind of sound which could be imagined holding the power to wake anyone. Nor had Segundus ever opened his eyes to such a strange, preposterous scene as the one he saw that morning.

There were books, papers, and pamphlets scattered - no, not scattered, rather carefully _arranged_ \- all across the floor, around the bed, over the small table by the fireplace, stools and chairs, over the chest where he kept his clean shirts. A fall of white which made him think of fresh snow. And birds’ prints, since all the pages were printed or covered in black writing.

In the middle of that fanciful landscape, Childermass was sitting on the floor, examining some periodical and making notes on the margins. He had tied his hair in a loose tail, just to keep it off his face, and still strands of it fell on his cheeks every time he turned his head to catch sight of a paragraph or stretched to grab another book. There was some colour in his cheeks and ink on his forearms - which were still bare, because he had folded the sleeves of his shirt like a man faced with a vast endeavour. Indeed the state of the room suggested that he had been awake for hours, bursting with zeal and impatience. And magic. Segundus was under the impression that Childermass had been doing some magic, or at least testing magic’s boundaries.   

Still he raised his head almost as soon as he felt Segundus’s eyes upon him, as surprised as if he had forgotten of Segundus’s presence in the bed. He scowled, did not get up from the floor, and then said:

“I am sorry if I have awoken you.”

Segundus took a glance at the window. It was morning and the day seemed brighter than the previous had been; at least it was no longer raining. When he turned back to Childermass, he reckoned that the man must have been to the ground floor, since he had retrieved his clothes - it made Segundus feel more clearly his nakedness under the blankets, as well as the unpleasant stickiness of his skin.

“I didn’t hear you, you must have been up for hours,” Segundus said, eyeing the amount of work which had been going on while he slept on.

He had not meant to sound reproachful; however Childermass looked a little chastised.

“You’re a sound sleeper,” he said, slowly rising to his feet, “and I did not wish to disturb your sleep.”

It was as if those few words had suddenly returned to them the memory of how they had shared the bed, and Childermass cleared his throat, while Segundus blushed. At the sight, Childermass crossed the room with something akin to impetuousness (which Childermass seldom displayed) and Segundus thought that he was going to be tipped over the mattress and ravished. Which was, by all means, not an unpleasant plan.

But Childermass put only one knee on the bed and then tilted his head to the side, until Segundus had to crawl out of the covers and reach for the man’s face. He touched it, marvelling at how real and raw it felt under his fingers. Childermass’s eyes fluttered closed and it would have been lovely to kiss him then, even taking their morning breath into account.

But Segundus had always been one for asking questions.

“What’s going on, Childermass?” he asked, while he thought _I should kiss you and call you John._

Childermass let himself fall onto the bed. He looked up at Segundus, frowning, then made a small, lazy gesture.

“Come down, come here,” he said. Though it was very tempting Segundus shook his head.

“I mean with Mr Strange and Mr Norrell,” he made clear, since he suspected that Childermass had been thinking about their night together - which was another matter worthy of inspection, but Segundus knew where priorities lay. Especially Childermass’s, painful as such a truth was to Segundus.

Confusion washed over Childermass’s face for a moment, then he raised his arm and covered his eyes with it. It was the single silliest, more heart-breaking thing Segundus had ever seen him do - hiding behind his arm like a child, _I don’t see you, you don’t see me_.    

“I don’t know.”

It was an admission of ignorance, which, in Childermass’s world at least, meant vulnerability. Segundus felt touched by it as well as by the sight of Childermass lying so in his bed. He noticed that Childermass’s nails were lined with ink - oh, he would always get ink on his hands and under his nails! - and thought how the man must have pillaged his stock of paper, ink, and quills while he was unknowingly asleep.

For some odd reason, the idea made Segundus’s spirit soften rather than harden against Childermass.

_Always taking what your heart desires, John Childermass. Except for._

“All right,” Segundus said quietly. “I’ll make tea. Breakfast.”

Childermass breathed a laugh at that. He moved his arm aside and followed Segundus with his eyes while he climbed down the bed. And when Segundus made to go, half-wrapped in a blanket like one of the old Roman statues which had been found in a field not far from Starecross, Childermass turned, half-raised, and locked his arms around Segundus’s waist, keeping him by the bed. Childermass said nothing, which was infuriating, and kept peering up in an expectant way, until Segundus indulged him and bent down to kiss.

Their mouths were, indeed, sour, but it was less unpleasant than Segundus had imagined it, after all.

“There is one thing I haven’t told you,” Childermass murmured, when they parted.

There were black shadows under his eyes, but the eyes themselves were bright and dark with barely concealed energy. It seemed as if he had already found a way to mitigate his affliction and his early-morning endeavours had worked on his mind like a balm. Segundus felt a little sting of resentment at the idea that all the comforts he had offered - tea, food, clothes, and ultimately his own bed - had probably done less for the man’s spirit than a few hours of magical study had. So it was with a partly forced levity that he replied:

“Only one thing?”   

He supposed, when he saw Childermass avert his gaze for a brief instant, that the kiss had been a way to distract him, and he felt himself panicking a little at the idea of what secret Childermass might be harbouring. Not even the fond grin Childermass exhibited when he raised his head was enough to quiet Segundus’s heart.

“It is Vinculus. You remember Vinculus, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” Segundus bristled. He had not expected to hear about the street magician and now he saw that Childermass was looking at him as if to guess what it would be better to say next.

“He’s in the stables.”

“He’s what?”

“Our paths... _crossed_. We have been travelling together for the past days, since I left Starecross.”

“Why didn’t you speak of it before?” Segundus asked, still too dumbfounded to feel annoyed. “And why in the stables? As if there were not enough empty rooms in the house! Or is he under some enchantment that makes it more sensible to relegate him among the horses?”

“He isn’t,” Childermass made a face. “But I was loathe to take him into the house last night, and he’s a man who has slept in worst places than your stables, which are warm and clean. I, on the other hand, wanted the house to myself.”

“You left the poor man in the stables on such a night, while you were given food and a fire to sit by, and...” Segundus’s speech somewhat deflated at that point, before he exclaimed: “Oh, if I could wipe that complacent look from your face!”

“I wouldn’t have minded sharing the fire, though Vinculus’s smell is never improved by the rain despite the fact that it’s the closest thing to a bath he has taken in weeks, and I wouldn’t have denied him my own plate of bread and butter. But _you_ I wouldn’t have shared. And you wouldn’t have let me as much as look at you in his presence.”

There was such an amount of indecency and tenderness about Childermass’s speech that Segundus’s mind reeled. What they had been doing the night before, Segundus had to admit to himself, would not have taken place if he had known that another was in the house, since such acts between men would always demand discretion. Furthermore, as much as Segundus was generally disinclined to hold a first unfortunate meeting against anyone, first impressions never weighed in Vinculus’s favour. And the matter sat so close to Segundus’s heart that he could hardly bear to let any living person witness it.

Still, Vinculus should have received better treatment.

“The decision wasn’t yours to make, Mr Vinculus is my guest as much as you are,” Segundus pointed out, ignoring how Childermass rolled his eyes at the _Mr_.  “I shall bring him inside and give him something to eat. I wonder that he has not come knocking at the door yet.”

“ _Pounding_ would be more like him,” Childermass grumbled. But he left the bed and rolled down his sleeves. “Your concern for Vinculus is both annoying and endearing,” he commented, without looking at Segundus, “but I will take Vinculus some food. Stay in bed.”

Despite the suggestive way Childermass’s rough voice lingered on the last words, Segundus tightened the blanket around himself and took a step back.

“Don’t you trust me alone with him? I won’t question him about your doings and try to pry in your secret wanderings, if it’s that what you fear.”

“I wouldn’t think you capable of it. Only I don’t want you to be a servant in your own house.”

“You’re not a servant in this house either.” Childermass’s shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. Segundus felt ashamed for him, so he started looking for clean clothes instead of holding the man’s gaze. “I’ll be a host to Vinculus, whether you like it or not,” he said. “And he will stay in the house, not in the stables.”

“I shall come with you then,” Childermass said morosely.

“I would have thought that you had more pressing matters at hand,” Segundus replied, making a gesture to embrace the state of the room.

“You must have questions.”  

“That is hardly the point. The point is if you would have answers for me.”

Childermass said nothing to that, but stood by the door and shamelessly watched as Segundus first washed. A couple of times Segundus thought about asking to be given some privacy, but he felt that he would not bear the man’s contempt for his primness, so he tried to make a quick work of it. He lost a button under the bed, mismatched his stockings, and almost tripped head first into the wardrobe, but when he was done he realised that Childermass had already left the room.   

 

Lucy took off her boots and brushed the hem of her skirt to wipe the dried mud away. Her aunt had always said that she would be ashamed of recommending such a sloppy girl to a good family; Lucy knew that the point was that Aunt Bertha always had some moral reasons to refuse her help to anyone. Still the criticism stung as Lucy had actually lost a couple of places because she was forgetful and found it very hard to concentrate on her work all the time, when there were so many interesting things to moon over.

Yet even Aunt Bertha, if she had seen Lucy at Starecross, would be bound to recognise that the girl was doing very well in the house. The truth was that Lucy liked her master, Mr Segundus, a great deal, so she put an extra effort in her duties as well as in her appearance, to the point that she had grown out of her more negligent ways. She would always remain a dreamy sort of girl who would be easily sidetracked, but she had become more responsible since she had started working at Starecross a year before.

Mr Segundus’s patient, Lady Pole, had made a great impression upon Lucy, both for her beauty and her lunacy. Lucy had never thought much about magic until she had found herself in Mr Segundus’s service, and now she hardly ever let a word upon magic go unnoticed whether she was at the house or in town. She did not like to share her opinions, for she was also quite humble and shy, but she enjoyed listening to all that was being said on the subject, and then she would inspect what she had heard in her head.

And during her short stay at home there had been plenty to hear about magic. The butcher’s boy, for instance, had grown a pair of horns - small, lovely, slightly fuzzy kind of horns - and it was unclear who had performed the spell; the point was that the butcher’s boy had become fond of his horns, which at last had given him some distinction after a lifetime of resented obscurity. Then there was the strange phenomenon of the cow spots changing places overnight, though in some cases this had been revealed to be a fraud set up to confuse and deceive the farmers[1]. There were also a great number of minor occurrences - flowers blooming in winter at one’s desire, things found, things lost, strange people appearing at crossroads, and common people shewing an unexpected inclination to wander off and never be heard of again.

It was all very scary and very thrilling, in Lucy’s opinion, and in these mysterious, fantastic times she felt her luck more acutely than ever.  

As if it was not enough that Mr Segundus was a magician, though only a _theoretical_ (a word which had given Lucy much trouble in the past, but that now she could play in her head at her wish) one, and a friend to the infamous Mr Strange, he was also a kind-hearted, intelligent man, and in short the nicest person Lucy could think of.

She, Lucy Green, was half in love with Mr Segundus.

Not that she had ever thought of Mr Segundus in a romantic light. She could not, for Lucy’s education did not encompass the possibility of a servant falling for her master - only girls in trouble. And since she could not afford trouble, not with her father dead these last five years and her mother’s health steadily failing, and was still too ingenuous to look for trouble were there was none, she was quite contented with admiring her master and being as good a maidservant as she could manage. Gratefulness and awe were all she knew about love, and Mr Segundus could inspire both, being very gentle and considerate on top of that.

This was why Lucy’s heart tightened in her chest at the sight of her master, pale and distressed as he suddenly appeared in the kitchen. She had been brushing her clothes and pressing her brown curls under her smart white cap (it was a lovely one, Mr Segundus had such a fine taste in all things), when he burst in.

He looked at her in outraged confusion, as if he had caught her at stealing meat from the pantry. Then his expression changed and Lucy could not say if he looked more relieved or disappointed. She curtsied, a little flustered at the idea that her cap was not neatly tied and her muddy boots were in plain sight where she had left them.

“Ah, Lucy,” Mr Segundus said. “You’re back.”

“Yes sir,” she barely managed, because she had just stolen a glance at him and he was deadly white, as if he had seen a ghost rather than his maidservant returning from a visit to her mother.

“I thought...I thought that you would not be back so soon. You must have found quite difficult to walk from the village; it was really unnecessary to hurry so, you might have waited for the road to dry a little.”

“But it was not very difficult, sir. Muddy, but I like walking,” she said with a blush, because she knew that he too liked walking, and she had often spied him from the windows of the house while he strolled through the moors. There was a beauty in that which Lucy knew not how to describe, but it was enough that she could feel it.       

“A good exercise even for someone as young as you,” he said, nodding distractedly. Then his gaze grew warmer and he went on: “I hope your mother is feeling better.”

“She is, sir,” Lucy replied, curtseying again without a reason. “She sends her thanks for the meat and all the food you sent with Charles last week.”

“Don’t mention it. You are a great help here, Lucy.”

“Thank you, sir,” Lucy stammered. She was under the impression that this was not what her master wanted to talk about and yet she was grateful for the attention he was bestowing upon her. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked, eager to please. She looked around and noticed that there were plates and cups to wash, and did not think before opening her mouth: “Was there someone at the house sir?”

The troubled, pained look on her master’s face told her that she should not have asked.

“Yes,” he replied and looked so distraught that Lucy wondered if there had been another person from Faerie in the house.

She knew in what throes the whole house had fallen the last time someone from that land had been visiting! She had not witnessed any of it[2], because Charles had told her to remain in the kitchen and when she had been allowed to leave it, the fairy had already left and his curses had been vanquished. Now the idea of facing anything of the kind made her tremble like a leaf in the wind.

Yet, her concern was mostly a generous one.

“Was you in danger, sir?” she fretted.

“Oh no, no,” he said. “You misunderstood me, Lucy. There were visitors, yes; you may remember Mr Childermass who was here a couple of times.”

“Mr Norrell’s manservant, sir?” Lucy blurted out without helping. She knew she had done wrong again, because her master looked at her in surprise that she could know that much.

“The weather was very bad, so he and...and this other man, a friend of his, stayed at the house. They’re gone now, you don’t have to worry about them.”

“Yes sir.”

“I will be in the study room, Lucy, but I would prefer not to be disturbed. I do not think we will have any more visitors though.”

And with that he was gone, leaving Lucy alone in the kitchen.

 _It must be_ , she realised, _that Mr Childermass upset him_. She barely knew the man herself, but she had noticed that his visits to Starecross never bode well; Charles had said so himself more than once, though he and the cook had always seemed torn between a certain instinctive liking for Childermass and their loyalty to their gentle master, who did not agree with Mr Norrell’s ways and so could not be pleased with Childermass either.

Lucy spent the afternoon cleaning the kitchen and doing the laundry. She knew that if Mr Segundus hired more servants, she might not have to do these things, for then she would become the older maid and her share of washing, dusting, and ironing would be smaller. She had heard Mr Honeyfoot tell Mr Segundus as much. The house needed more servants, he could afford them, and it was not really nice that a girl with her arms reddened by soap, water, and hard scrubbing would answer at the door as well.

But Lucy was not sure that she was ready to share her place in the house with another girl. She was glad that, on days like today, she was the only one who could knock at the door of the study and hear the master’s quiet voice invite her in. She asked him about dinner (she was not a skilled cook, but she could warm the pie Cook had left and also manage some simple dishes if he wished, and she wished so very much to cook for him).

“I am sorry, Lucy, I find that I have no appetite this evening. Would you be so kind as to bring me tea?”

She did and, when she was back with the tray, he hummed his thanks. Lucy observed him out of the corner of her eye: he seemed calmer now, thoughtful yes, but then Mr Segundus always looked so. He gave her a quiet smile when she had finished arranging the things on the table. She made to go, but he spoke again before she could put her hand on the doorknob.

“Have you met anyone on your walk from the village, Lucy? Did you happen to see Mr Childermass and his companion maybe? They were on horseback, I believe.”

“I am sorry sir, I haven’t seen no one.”

“It is all right,” he reassured her, maybe aware that she felt embarrassed. “I was wondering which way they went, but it is not important. You can go to bed now, you must be tired; do not worry about this,” he added, gesturing at the table.

She took her leave then, but when she was in her bed she could still see Mr Segundus’s kind, kind face, and how something in his light-blue eyes had been crushed at her answer.

 

*

 

_January 15 th, 1807_

 

Though it bothered him that, again, he had been credited with a disreputable propensity for _wild tales_ , as Dr Foxcastle had put it, he had not been very surprised by the outcome of his and Mr Honeyfoot’s report at the Society after their visit to Hurtfew Abbey. Unlike Mr Honeyfoot, Segundus had never fooled himself with regard to the kind of reactions they would face at the extraordinary meeting; they had found supporters, that was true, but at the very heart of the society lay disbelief.

Still, despite the fact that Dr Foxcastle’s words had hurt him and that Mr Honeyfoot’s sympathy had made him feel the sting more deeply, what troubled Segundus was that he seemed unable to recollect the feeling he had experienced in Mr Norrell’s house. He _felt_ in his mind and in his heart, as he had declared to the assembly, that magic had been done there; but he _knew_ nothing of it. He had called it a dream when he had first spoken of it, but now he realised that he had been partially wrong in describing it so. It was rather that he had been left with the imprecise, incomplete remembrance of a dream, and the feeling that he had been very happy in his sleep and yet could not recall that happiness nor its reasons.

He was disappointed in himself. He had hoped that there would be magic done in England and he had been given a chance to see it. And now he had no words, no explanations to offer, only the certainty that he had been in the presence of a practical magician. Norrell’s quiet voice he remembered very well, as clearly as the time in Mr Honeyfoot’s carriage travelling through the bare brown fields, and how he had told Mr Honeyfoot about the street magician’s prophecy and the spell he had bought - a spell which was likely to never work, even if this Mr Norrell could manage to bring magic back to England.

But the house and the library - because he knew they had been showed into the library - were a blur; he could not recall but a few insensate details about the books, and to no avail had Mr Honeyfoot struggled to scribble down at least two or three titles they might have read on the spines. More painful yet was the feeling that he had _tasted_ magic there, but that impression escaped Segundus like perfume would leave an opened bottle.   

 _I must be very stupid_ , he told himself regretfully. He must have observed very little or been distracted too easily in Mr Norrell’s presence. Now he was left with this little but persistent sense of loss, as if someone had taken a piece out of him, the smallest bone, and still he could not say where they had taken it from. He could only hope that nothing would collapse inside him because of it.

“An infusion of birch leaves.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“For your headache, sir.”

Segundus realised that he had been staring at the nearest wall, one hand pressed against his forehead, thumb drawing slow circles upon his temple. It was not a proper headache, but that heaviness he had been suffering for days, like the promise of a cold which made his thoughts slow, unfocused.

Now, for example, he had left his rooms in Lady Peckett’s Yard with the purpose of talking to the bookseller by the Minster about any chance of finding books about Christo-Judaic magic - a subject he had never given much thought before, but that he now felt drawn to. A sudden fancy, but one which had taken him out of the house and down the street to the bookshop on such a bleak day. There was a promise of snow in the chill and the steel-grey of the sky, and Segundus regretted that he had not accepted a second cup of tea from his landlady that morning.

Yet, all his resolve to speak to Mr Foster[3] had vanished the moment he had entered the shop. For the past half hour he had been distractedly pacing around, leafing through books without actually recognising any words, not even attempting to have a private word with Mr Foster, until he had found himself in a secluded ill-lit corner. He had half-slouched against the oak bookcase, succumbing to the heaviness, while he breathed in the dry-paper smell he loved so well.

He turned his head, to take in the stranger.

The man who had spoken gave a general impression of _black_. Black overcoat, dark hair, dark eyes, blacker against the whiteness of his skin; but especially the feeling that he was at ease among shadows - that is to say there was an edge of un-respectableness about him. Although this should have alarmed Segundus and it would certainly have done so in ordinary circumstances, it did not now. The fact that they were not in an alley but in a decent shop helped, but the point was that Segundus was distracted by the idea that there was something wrong, as if their meeting had to be happening somewhere else.

“Do I...I think I saw your face.” Segundus blurted out.

“We may have met here before,” the man said. His voice was like his face - unpolished. “I am an old customer of Mr Foster’s.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Segundus said, but quietly, because he felt that it would be impolite to insist and the effort of recalling anything about the man made his head spin. “Thank you for your advice. Are you a medical man?”

“Do I look like one, sir?” the stranger asked, in an amused tone which suggested that he did not believe Segundus could have taken him for a physician for a single moment.

It made Segundus colour a little, for it was not his wont to interrogate strangers about their business, let alone wonder if he had seen their face in his dreams. So he made to move on, half-bowing, half-excusing himself, but Mr Foster was coming that way followed by three customers in a great hurry, so Segundus retreated, prompted by the impression that it was not desirable to be caught hiding in a corner with -

“My name is John Childermass.”

“I am John Segundus,” Segundus felt compelled to answer.

“I know who you are.”

“You know?”

“I might have escaped your notice,” the man suggested, with the air of saying that he had been _beneath_ Segundus’s notice. Strangely the assertion did not sound humble at all, but quite provocative. “Yet we both spend a considerable amount of time in the bookselling establishments of this city and our interests often cross paths. It was only a matter of time before we were introduced.”

“You introduced yourself to me, sir,” Segundus could not help pointing out, feeling that the man was being imprecise with the purpose of appearing mysterious. Childermass’s lips curled in a smile, as if Segundus had reacted according to his expectations - which was obviously most irritating. “You must excuse my hasty words before: I do not know what came over me, now I am sure we never met.”

“My apologies, I did not meant to upset you Mr Segundus,” Childermass said, suddenly serious. “I was curious and wished to speak to you. I saw you looking for books of magic and I also saw how often you were disappointed.”

“That...that was very inappropriate of you, sir. My _interests_ , as you call them, are not of your concern.”

“They are my master’s.”

Segundus was so astonished at this declaration that he had to close his eyes for a moment. He almost wished that when he would open them again Childermass would not be there anymore, but there he was, a neutral expression on his long sharp face.

“Are you in Mr Norrell’s service?”

“I am Mr Norrell’s man,” Childermass said. Segundus could not tell if Childermass wanted to suggest that there was a difference between being in service and being someone’s man, but he did not miss the way the man’s chin lifted almost imperceptibly. Whatever this Childermass was to Mr Norrell, he took pride in it.

“I suppose...I suppose we met at Hurtfew Abbey then.”

“We did.”

“And I also suppose that we were...” the word almost stuck in his throat, “enchanted.”

“Are you afraid?” Childermass enquired, his eyes narrowing slightly upon Segundus.

“Afraid?” Segundus repeated, blinking. He realised, at the sight of Childermass’s sudden frown, that he had inadvertently raised his voice, so he stepped a little closer to the man. “I am excited, sir. I can’t...oh I beg you, is there anything you could tell me about the spell he used? I would say that it was laid on the house itself, since it would surely need some kind of structure to take roots. Might it be something which can last for days or weeks, as long as one renews the spell from time to time like one would prune a bush to keep it from growing out of the desired shape? Was there ever something like this in Pale? I think these kinds of spells must belong to one of the oldest traditions in England, medieval accounts are full of people forgetting where they have been and whom they have meet, and surely fairies practice this kind of magic more than...”

Segundus was so delighted at the thought of such magic that he had put aside the fact that he had been its target and victim in the first place. In fact, he could not help the thrill running up his spine at the idea that he had been enchanted. It was ungentlemanly on Mr Norrell’s part, and were there still magical laws in England it would have been possibly criminal, yet it meant that he, John Segundus, had tasted magic for the first time.

So he might be forgiven if he had grown enthusiastic and therefore unguarded, almost forgetting himself in his desire to know more, to be given another glimpse of that world he had dreamt for so long. He knew that his face must have turned pink from eagerness and an observer would have thought that he had sort of _ambushed_ Childermass in a corner and was now harassing him. Which was preposterous of course, but the thought crossed Segundus’s mind and deepened his blush.

Not even a mocking smile on Childermass’s mouth could have dampened his glee, but Segundus was surprised to find no contempt on the man’s face. There was, in its place, a sharp attentiveness which made him feel slightly unsafe.

“The spell is in place for a reason,” Childermass said.

His voice, low and rough as it was, sounded almost regretful. Or maybe it was Segundus attributing his own feelings to him. He understood very well that Mr Norrell had not wished them to remember any detail of their visit, for reasons Segundus had just begun to grasp, yet it hurt that he must be kept in the dark.

“Then why are you talking to me?” he asked, in a bristling, uncharacteristic way.

“As I said, I was curious. I wanted to speak to you. To the man who asked the question,” Childermass said, as if he was reading it out from a book. And his eyes flew to the spines of the books on the shelves before returning to Segundus. He had the kind of eyes that pin people in place at their owner’s will, so it was not really pleasant to be the object of that gaze. As if one could not help freezing on the spot in fright or start fidgeting to avoid the sudden, unrelenting pressure of Childermass’s eyes. “You might still not realise what you have done, Mr Segundus. Questioning the state of things. Coming to Hurtfew. But I do. I know what you and me are doing.”

“I do not understand,” Segundus said, sincerely confused.

“I do.”

“Will...will I remember any of this?”

“You see, again you are asking the right question,” Childermass said approvingly. “I am afraid you will not remember. The spell, as you may have already guessed, touches everything connected to your visit to Hurtfew. And I took precautions.”

“You...”

“Aye.”

“You are revealing yourself to me as a practical magician, sir,” Segundus gasped.

 _John Childermass_ , how calculating, how reckless. He could not decide who this man was. And yet he was - he _was_ , because he could not think of such a man claiming to be anything without reasons - a magician. _Two magicians shall appear in England..._

“As I said, you will not remember it,” Childermass shrugged, as to dismiss the weight of his confession.

“I am very sorry for that then. I wish we could talk about magic.”

It was not characteristic of Segundus to voice his desires, so he supposed that the knowledge that he would forget was emboldening him; at least until he realised that Childermass, on the contrary, _would_ remember.

“I wish the same,” Childermass said, as if he had guessed Segundus’s sudden shyness. “Mr Norrell is the first practical magician in England in centuries. I have been with him for many years, Mr Segundus. I know him. I know the kind of man he is and the kind of magician he will make. The kind I will make him into. You are a very different kind of man. I wonder,” he repeated, growing thoughtful.

“About me?” Segundus asked in disbelief.

“What kind of magician you would make.”

Segundus gave a short, nervous laugh.

“I am afraid there is not much in me of the magician. I would...I would know it by now, since I tried very hard, sir, very hard to become one.”

Childermass made a vague, dismissing gesture.

“Do you understand that this is the beginning, Mr Segundus? We are on the brink of a new world.”

“Is that what your master says, Mr Childermass?”

A flinch, the compelling quality of that dark gaze watered down by a conscious effort. Segundus saw that this man could make himself look dull and unimportant at his own whim.  

“Mr Norrell seldom finds any pleasure in novelties.”

“You are doing this against his wishes. Without his knowledge,” Segundus realised.

Childermass tilted his head. Then he shrugged.

“It was a completely selfish endeavour. One needs these sort of liberties, from time to time. As long as they are of no consequence.”

“If we knew each other, Mr Childermass, I would take offence in your words,” Segundus said with some boldness. He felt the beginning of something. A small tug, a thread coming loose, being pulled slowly from the seam, and then a feeling of rain and earth upon his face and up his nostrils.

“But we don’t know each other, Mr Segundus,” Childermass said.

It sounded farther away, despite the fact that they had not moved.

“Not until next time, you mean. You said that we are bound to be introduced.”

Another tug, sharper, and the sudden worry that if the seam would be unstitched, things will be lost. It made Segundus feel extremely sad, to the point that he could have started crying if he had not felt also too hazy to focus on the reasons of his frustration. It might be that he did not completely like the look of the stranger standing by.

 _John Childermass_ , he repeated to himself, in the vain attempt to not forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Though later that year a report published in The Scotsman argued that all the cases in the region of York owed to the craftiness of envious neighbours and well-known blackguards, as well as to certain criminal individuals which had moved their business to the Edinburgh area in Spring with the result of a plethora of new cases in the Lothians. It was later ascertained that the nature of at least four episodes taking place in villages around York had been magical. Miss Lucy Green, whom the reader may have already recognised as The Green Lady, author of many revolutionary essays, would prove that the cattle had been replaced - this explained the different coats the beasts showed - with a species of changeling creatures which would turn to turf in a matter of months. 
> 
> [2] The Green Lady would later be one of the most tireless enquirers concerning the events which took place on the 15th of February 1817, going as far as to declare that being forbidden to witness them, despite being in the very same house, was one of the greatest disappointments of her life. This would also led to some controversy between her and Mr Charles Glover, the one who had commanded her to stay in the kitchen, since he refused to share with her - or with anyone else - his own account of that day, on the ground that it would have broken his professional reserve. His words, which were published in many a newspaper at a time when the place and the rights of magician’s servant (or a magician servant) were discussed all across the country, were considered a barely concealed criticism against Miss Green, who subsequently would no longer be on speaking term with Mr Glover for over three years. 
> 
> [3] John Segundus, in a short article of his on the proliferation of bookshops specialised in books of magic, recalled the time before the return of magic to England and the bookselling establishments in York he used to visit then. Mr Foster’s, though neither the oldest nor the biggest in town, was described in the article as the “most pleasant”. No reasons were given for such a peculiar preference on Mr Segundus’s preference.


	3. The Stones of York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting(s) in the Minster.

_March 4 th, 1807_

 

He wondered if he should have provided an accurate list of each statue’s doings. It would have taken him longer to gather such details from all those who had been there the other night and he was not sure that the now _ex-_ magicians would welcome his questioning. Besides, some cases would demand a more specific inspection, starting from deciphering the antiquated languages some of the statues had employed, to the understanding of their allusions and references. In other words, he would have been faced with the need to investigate the very story of York and its Minster, something which would have required money and time; Segundus had neither[1].

The former was a sore point of his existence, especially when it came to his limited means to acquire books on magic; the latter was a matter of convenience: he had felt that finishing the article was far more important than including a detailed account of any outcome of the spell. Yet, now that days were passing and he had no news from London, Segundus doubted the wisdom of his choices and he fretted about what he should have included in his piece, and how little qualified he was to write on magic, after all.

Mr Honeyfoot, upon reading the article, had said something about how _political_ it sounded. At the time, though with some blushing, Segundus had deemed it a good trait; actually, he had even thought that he had expressly wanted to be a little political, if that meant to further the cause of English magic.

This was, in truth, where Segundus’s ideas on the subject became confused, because the _miracle of York_ , as people had already started to name it, had resulted in the disbanding of the Learned Society of York Magicians. Which, regardless of his personal case, was not a very pleasant prospect.

It felt unfair, despite the fact that it could not be denied that it had been the Society which had invited Mr Norrell to perform magic in the first place; besides, the terms of his answer had been clearly expostulated and accepted by all the members - that is to say with the exception of John Segundus.

So he found that the return of magic to England had started at a queer, unexpected pace; the sort of pace he could not entirely approve. Remarking it to Mr Honeyfoot did not ease his conscience, especially since his new friend always grew a little mournful on the subject, so Segundus would rather avoid it than cause him any pain. Actually Segundus thought that Mr Honeyfoot was taking it exceptionally well. He knew he would have reacted far more badly in his friend’s place, but he supposed that Mr Honeyfoot found solace in his family - they were, indeed, one of the nicest families Segundus had ever met - whereas he, John Segundus, was quite alone in the world. And there was also that horrid business of murder the little stone figure had reported and that had struck Mr Honeyfoot’s fancy more than anything else going on in the Cathedral, so that he was already talking of writing to the Dean, the Canons, and the Archbishop himself to obtain the permit to dig up the pavement of the south transept.  

Still, Segundus felt that he could have written something to express his apprehension about Mr Norrell’s conduct, though it would have weakened the general effect of the article and also cast a shadow over the magician’s reputation. Which would not bode well for the revival of English magic, he knew that much.

Segundus sighed, realising that he would not find answers to his dilemma, at least not before he heard anything at all from London. He calculated that enough days had passed, and either his article would appear in print by the beginning of the next week or it would not appear at all. It would mean that they had found it unconvincing. The possibility that his record could be thought a forgery - that the very idea of English magic could raise such suspicions - dampened his spirits. How low the practice and the study of magic had fallen over the centuries, when one had to worry about how to make his account of a spell believable!

But in truth, though the memory of the other night was most vivid and Segundus had revisited it in his mind time and again, he could not deny that in daytime the Cathedral seemed hardly capable of enduring such an amount of magic. Indeed it was remarkably beautiful, with its breathtaking heights and the stained glass windows pierced by the morning light, but it did not look any different from any other winter morning. If Segundus had come here looking for some reassurance on what he had experienced, the stones of York were mute.

Segundus was pacing the south nave and reasoning with himself on this subject when he saw that Childermass was there as well. The man only touched his hat - which, Segundus noticed, he had not taken off upon entering the Minster - but Segundus walked up to him.

“Good morning,” he greeted him, “What a coincidence to meet you here.”

“No coincidence, sir,” Childermass replied, the corners of his mouth rising ever so slightly. “I saw you enter, I followed.” Segundus blinked at the man’s boldness, but he did not have any time to speak. “I must keep an eye on you, since you are the only other magician left in York.”

Though it was said with some humour and Childermass’s face expressed nothing but a polite interest, Segundus felt ill at ease. He did not like to be reminded what had been done to the York magicians. Yet he would not avoid giving Childermass his due.

“I must thank you, sir, for allowing me not to sign Mr Norrell’s contract. I am very grateful for your understanding and I hope it did not get you into trouble with your master.”

The man looked a little puzzled, then his eyes narrowed upon Segundus.

“I pointed out to Mr Norrell that your visit at Hurtfew, and the events it set in motion, happened at a most convenient time, when he had been thinking for some time about how to reveal himself as a practical magician. Moreover, you are a gentleman and - as I said before - one of a most obliging nature; Mr Norrell is looking forward to reading your article in _The Times_.”

Segundus cringed a little at that, because he would now be expected to share news on the subject.

“I am afraid I cannot say anything about it. I received no answer and I am starting to think that my piece might be overlooked. Perhaps another should have written to London, Dr Foxcastle has friends who...”

“Dr Foxcastle would not do,” Childermass interrupted him. “Nor any other former members of the Learned Society. Mr Norrell could not have forgotten to praise your work on Pale’s fairy servants when you came to Hurtfew, I am sure he must have told you how remarkable he found it.”

 _Creditable_ , Segundus thought, remembering the word Mr Norrell had used (that was something he could remember very clearly, despite the fact that he always felt vaguely confused about his visit to Hurtfew). Although he had not minded being reprimanded for having left out one Master Fallowthought, the satisfied little smile Mr Norrell had worn when he had realised how inadequate Segundus’s readings were, how large his ignorance, how limited his access to books of magic, had been disquieting. There was indeed more warmth in Childermass’s words now than there had been in Mr Norrell’s praise then.

“I am very glad to hear it, but I am no journalist and I may have failed to convey the right kind of feeling, to describe the events in the correct light, and...”

“You sell yourself short,” Childermass said, brusquely. “An account for _The Times_ cannot have been more difficult than writing on Pale the way you did, and without the aid of an extensive library.”

At that Segundus flushed, finding that this new reminder of his meagre means was unfair. It was clear that even a servant could tell that he led a sparse existence, made up of small economies and great frustrations, saving up for books Mr Norrell would always manage to snatch away from under his nose.

As for Childermass, he seemed to guess Segundus’s feelings.

“I made you uncomfortable, sir,” he said, his voice low and raspy, but not unkind. “What I meant to say is that I admired your work.”

“You read it,” Segundus realised with surprise.

“I am in the habit of surveying Mr Norrell’s purchases, in order to ascertain their value,” the man explained, tilting his head in a show of humbleness. “It is part of my duties as Mr Norrell’s man of business to take care of his library and do all in my power to expand it. So you may see that it is important that I have a clear perception of a book’s value to better trade with the booksellers and not be swindled. What? You are smiling at me,” Childermass said, frowning.

“Not at you, Mr Childermass. It is only that now I realise it was never Mr Norrell who thwarted my attempts at acquiring some books of my own; it was you, or rather it was him through you. You were the one who preceded me every time, who walked out of the shop with a parcel of books under your arm, maybe only a few moments before my arrival.”

“I told you we probably met in one of the city’s bookselling establishments, sir.”

“No, I think you were always several steps ahead of me, Mr Childermass.”

Segundus had spoken without animosity. He truly could not feel any toward Childermass, since he was doing his master’s bidding and he suspected that he was quite good at it. Actually, Segundus was a little in awe of this man, whom his master clearly trusted - Norrell did not give the impression of being generous with his trust as a rule. Surely Childermass had shewed skills and loyalty over the years in Norrell’s service, and thus he bore the delightful responsibility of taking care of his master’s library.

Despite the light-hearted tone Segundus had used, Childermass looked still suspicious.

“I think Mr Norrell would be glad if you could provide him with a copy of the article you sent to London, sir.”

“And I would gladly oblige Mr Norrell, but I destroyed the draft after I sent the letter...it must sound ridiculous, but I did not like it laying around, reminding me of the responsibility I took upon myself,” Segundus mused. Then he bit his lower lip and cast a timid glance at Childermass. “I must have just sound very conceited.”

“On the contrary,” Childermass replied vaguely. “It’s a pity though.”

“Your master worries, I suppose.”

It was an euphemism, for Segundus was under the impression that if Mr Norrell had been able to read his piece in advance, he would have asked him all sorts of amendments and in short he would have wanted full control over what was written. It was not Segundus’s habit to be so judgemental, but the memory of the magicians of York queuing under the snow to sign Mr Norrell’s contract was still fresh on his mind: Mr Norrell, excellent magician as he had proved himself, seemed also a very controlling kind of man.

“He does,” Childermass conceded, without mirroring Segundus’s tentative smile.

“Then he may feel relieved thinking that if the article is printed he will be able to read it soon. If it is not, then it will be irrelevant.”

This time Childermass’s mouth crooked into a kind of grin.

“Very well said, sir. Still, I would have liked to read it.”

It was the second time Childermass spoke for himself rather than in Mr Norrell’s behalf. Segundus had already noticed how the two men’s interests were intertwined: it was evident that Childermass’s desires were moulded from his master’s cast, to the point that Segundus was not sure where Mr Norrell’s wishes ended and where Childermass’s started. It was as if the one could stand for the other. He supposed that it often happened between a gentleman and his valet or his man of business, since the latter would be living the former’s life, but in due time he might also acquire a kind of influence upon his master, as if to counterbalance the authority he was subjected to.

“What is the title?” Childermass asked.

“ _An Appeal to the Friends of English Magic_.” Childermass gave a cough, as if to conceal his mirth. “Are you laughing at me, sir?”

“No, I...I think it is very apt. English Magic needs friends. If it is printed sir, and I think it will be, many things may change.”

“Yes, Mr Norrell will be made famous. It is curious though, for I am under the impression that he is not overly fond of...public attention,” he said, even if he was thinking _not overly fond of company_.

“He is aware of his duty to English magic.”

“You make it sound like an ordeal, Mr Childermass. I hope it will not be so for your master, because he should rejoice in the talent he possesses.”

“He would not like to hear you talking about _talent_ ,” Childermass said. “He would rather speak of abilities and knowledge he has acquired over the years through hard study.”

“I understand that he may be annoyed at hearing people call his achievements _the miracle of York_. And we should all agree with him on this point: that this magic he is bringing back needs a careful study of the books and the histories of magic. Otherwise, the return of magic to England will lack the moral principles it needs.”

“This is something my master would be delighted to hear,” Childermass hummed.

“You do not approve though.”

“It is not my place to approve or disapprove,” Childermass said, despite the fact that by now Segundus suspected that the man approved and disapproved of things at his leisure, if only with a sidelong glance or a tilt of his head. And indeed Childermass added: “But if you allow me sir, I will agree on the morals and the hard study. Yet we also need single-minded energy and some nerve, if I may say so.”

 _And will it be John Childermass offering them to the cause?_ Segundus wondered, studying him with more attention. An active, efficient kind of man, despite the way he had of making himself look respectful and unobtrusive; not powerfully built, but wiry and resilient - like the sort of plants which grow in the moors.

“I would not mind calling at Hurtfew one of these days,” Segundus said suddenly.

“It would be very kind of you to bring news of your article to my master, sir.”

“As soon as I hear from _The Times_ , I will. Mr Honeyfoot and I...”

“ _Alone_ would be preferable, sir,” Childermass suggested. “I do not think Mr Norrell would appreciate discussing magic before an ex-magician.”

Segundus flinched a little at the reprimand. For a moment he had forgotten that Mr Honeyfoot would no longer partake in the study of magic. For the first time, he considered the disbanding of the Learned Society in a more selfish light - in other words, he realised that from now on he would be quite alone in his studies.

A few weeks before he would have admitted how ill-at-ease he felt in the presence of the members of the Society, with the exception of Mr Honeyfoot, Mr Thorpe, and few others. Now the company of those fellow magicians seemed very desirable and the picture it painted in his mind was more amiable than the reality had ever been. It was as if he could lend Mr Honeyfoot’s kind temper to all the other associates - the very ones who had snubbed and antagonised him, either over his worn clothes or his interest in practical magic - and thus regret that he had already lost their company.

At least Mr Honeyfoot’s invitations had not ceased, but it would have been unkind, and a breach of the contract, to talk of magic with him. Let alone the fact that Mrs Honeyfoot would rather hear no more about magic.

“You were right before,” Segundus said, a little wistfully, dropping his gaze to his hands. “Mr Norrell and I are the only magicians left in York. I know that my knowledge is not very extensive compared to his and he must find me quite naive in all matters of magic, but if he would find himself inclined to discuss magic and overlook my ignorance for a while, I think I’d be very happy to oblige him.”

Childermass had tilted his head and there was a not wholly polite expression on his face, one that said _I know you’d be happy_ and seemed to see through Segundus’s manners to behold the naked pleading nature of his words. Segundus’s colour rose in an instant. He squeezed his tricorne in his hands and took a step aside, set to take his leave now that he had embarrassed himself.

Childermass’s dark eyes immediately registered his intentions and he moved as well, not truly blocking Segundus’s way, but suggesting a certain unwillingness to let him depart so hastily.  

“Mr Norrell devotes most of his time to study and he is not in the habit of entertaining visitors. You must be aware of that, sir. So you must not feel disappointed if my master does not seek your company as another may indeed choose to do, for his cloistered ways are not a testimony to your qualities.”

“I will not be offended, sir,” Segundus felt compelled to promise, marvelling a little at how kind Childermass’s advice was. “Though I do not think I could help being disappointed if I were denied the chance to talk about magic with such an accomplished scholar. Magic, you see...”

“It is your life.”

“You remember my words.”

“You were the only one who spoke so the other night, sir.”

“A nuisance, I am sure,” Segundus said with some humour. Childermass said nothing, but he lifted his right eyebrow in a way which was almost comical and ridiculously heart-warming. Indeed there was no reason for feeling sure about it, but Segundus was under the impression that the man grudgingly approved of the way he had spoken at the Cathedral and of how he had refused to sign the contract.

At that very moment, the bells started. It was as if they had been given a signal, for they both moved away from each other, and Childermass brought his hand to his hat.

“I expect I will read your piece on _The Times_ , sir,” he said, in the manner of a parting.

“I hope so, Mr Childermass, I hope so.”

 

*

      

_March 20 th, 1817_

 

These days the Cathedral was frequented by a great number of magicians and would-be magicians. Many among them would try their hand at the stone figures in the - not wholly incorrect - assumption that a place which had allowed magic before would be more pliant to their spells. News of success would recur as frequently as twice a week, but Segundus had never witnessed any of it.

In truth, nowadays Segundus seldom walked the naves of the Minster. He was not overly eager to be recognised there, considering that the majority of magicians visiting the Cathedral were Norrellites on a pilgrimage, who regarded the place as the very cradle of their party and would try to quarrel with him over the future of English magic. A pressing subject, but also one Segundus did not wish to discuss with anyone yet, since he was still trying to make up his mind about what he would do with himself now that magic was back and - this was a remarkable paradox - England’s two most notorious magicians had disappeared.

 _Become a magician_ was clearly the simplest answer to the question, yet Segundus suspected that he had become a very complicated man over the last decade and a simple answer would not satisfy him.

Still, on this bright morning with the sun painting the twin towers gold and pink, Segundus had resorted to his old habit of trying to remember how his first taste of magic had felt, more than ten years before. So he was walking with his nose up in the air, his head a little light while he eyed the golden roses puncturing the vaulted ceilings, when he was called.    

“Mr Segundus.”

He was surprised, and yet he was not. He had not expected Childermass (he felt sure of it, because he had made a conscious effort not to think of him at all). Yet, now that the man had appeared at his side, it seemed perfectly reasonable that they should meet here, as if they were fated to return to the stage of their first meeting - the snow twirling silvery in the dark, the high shadows of the Cathedral, a man in a dark coat waiting...

“Why are you here?”

If Childermass felt the aggressiveness in his tone, it did not shew in his dry answer.

“I saw you enter, I followed.”

“You can’t...” _follow me_ Segundus would have said, but he realised how petulant it would sound. And he did not mean to quarrel with Childermass at all, since it would imply talking to Childermass, which had never boded very well in the past. “I bid you a good day, sir,” he said instead, trying to make his way past him.

“You’d do yourself an injustice, sir, if you were to desert the meeting tonight.”

Segundus turned so quickly that he felt his head spin a little. Or maybe it was the sudden surge of fury and humiliation which clouded his mind to all considerations of self-preservation, and dragged him right back before Childermass.

“You suggest that my judgement might be affected by,” he struggled for the right word, then made a distressed noise and capitulated “by _you_!”

“You wish to avoid me, sir.”

“So if I were not to answer your _call_ to all magicians in England and not come to the Olde Starre Inn tonight, you’d think that I...”

“I was at Starecross this morning,” Childermass interrupted him. “But you already know this. I saw you at the window, though you instructed your maid to inform me that you were not at home.”

“It is very ungentlemanly to point it out,” Segundus murmured, flushing with shame.

He had not liked to ask Lucy to lie and the girl had looked more than a little troubled about facing the unannounced visitor that morning. He suspected that Lucy was in great awe of Childermass: when she had returned from her ordeal at the door, she had much stuttered and almost overturned the breakfast tray.  

“Is my frankness more ungentlemanly than hiding behind a curtain and asking your maid to send me from your door?” The sharp tone made Segundus flinch. At that Childermass sighed and his expression seemed to turn slightly softer. “I only asked you for a chance to speak alone.”

“I am afraid I can’t grant you that. I must ask you to...”

“No,” Childermass grunted. His narrowed eyes looked blacker than ever in the half-light of the candles burning in the Cathedral. “This time I won’t be swayed so easily. I have been away for too long.”

Segundus wondered if by _too long_ Childermass meant the four or five weeks which had elapsed since he had appeared at Starecross, soaked through and dejected; that time when Childermass had hidden Vinculus in the stables and later left Segundus only half-dressed and feeling painfully stupid, the floor strewn with books and the bedding still lukewarm from their bodies. Yes, five weeks of silence fell in the definition of _too long_.

Yet there was something in Childermass’s grim but dogged tone which suggested that he might be thinking of a longer span of time. Maybe the several years, and not weeks, of whatever they had been doing, of that discontinuous acquaintance which had never been properly _cultivated_ , but rather left to fend for itself, to put roots in what little soil it could find.

“I have a right to ask you...” Segundus began again.

“Yes, you have. But I won’t listen.”

“Must you interrupt me every time?”

Childermass made a sound, which was both a groan and an huffed laugh. It was somehow typical of him, the kind of raspy noise that went with his Yorkshire accent. It felt _familiar_ and made Segundus’s heart first soften and then harden all the more.

“I do not mean to interrupt you. You have no idea how I would like to have you talking to me,” _like you used to_ , Segundus almost heard, but Childermass did not really say that. “But I won’t have you keeping me away with words, Mr Segundus. Nor magic or your friend Honeyfoot’s gun for that matter. Yet, it is not to discuss this that I followed you here: it is to make sure that you will come tonight. In this at least I am not selfish, for you would do a great disservice to yourself and English magic, were you to turn the invitation down.”

“There’s plenty of magicians nowadays.”

“None who has been there from the beginning, Mr Segundus. Except you and me.”

“You were there,” Segundus corrected him, more bitterly than he had intended. “You were there at Mr Norrell’s side, spying on Strange and the rest of us for what I know. I was here in York, achieving very little and having my best ambitions destroyed; but I do not need to tell you: you already know everything, you always know. Haven’t you read my answer to your invitation in your cards? It would have spared you coming here.”

“I’ve never used my cards to read your thoughts or your desires, John.”

The use of his Christian name was worse than the rest; worse even than the aching look which had now appeared on Childermass’s face, as if he had been hurt by Segundus’s accusation. Childermass held no right to feel offended, when he had spied, bullied, and what else for Mr Norrell, for years. And laid and turned his cards, over and over.

“You read only my actions,” Segundus said, his voice unsteady. Childermass said nothing, for at least he knew better than denying. This was what Segundus had hoped to avoid, this unbearable weight of thoughts and feelings which made him queasy. Even discussing about the oncoming meeting of the Learned Society was preferable. “It is insulting that you should think I would let our...differences prevent my presence.”

“So you’ll come?” Childermass sounded careful, as if he did not want to appear too relieved, lest Segundus be offended.

“I haven’t said so. If you must know, I haven’t decided yet.”

“But you must come. It is what you have been dreaming for so long, the return of magic.”

“Magic has returned without any help from the Learned Society. As it is, one might infer that it was very well that the Society was abolished ten years ago, otherwise it might have taken longer. Why should we suppose that magic has any need for the Society now?”

“Ten years ago you told me that we would need rules and books to guide the return of magic. You may have changed in many ways, but not in this: you know as well as I do that we can’t simply let magic flow back in the country. We have no books except one; that one we must read and that one must lead us. And it is something a magician alone will never achieve, we need to work together.”

 _So this is how the new John Childermass looks_ , Segundus thought. Taller, darker, his Northern accent strangely sharper; all of him sharper, in truth, as if he was preparing himself to cut his way through the minds and hearts of his audience.

This was not the disheartened man who had appeared at Starecross weeks before, the one who did not know where his master had gone and seemed to have lost his drive; the one who had been hungrier for the warmth of another body than for food or shelter. This was the man who had summoned the magicians of York and who had offered the most poetic, wild answer to Segundus’s question on the whereabouts of Mr Norrell and Mr Strange - _behind the sky, on the other side of rain_.

What had been left this side of the rain was no longer a servant; it was a magician.

One who would lead others, who would make himself influential and exceptional (it might not matter that some had found Childermass to be so even before all this). Soon people holding significant positions in the world would talk of and to John Childermass. _His star_ , some newspapers would write _, is ascending_. And Segundus felt that it was fair, but it also made him unhappy - a ridiculous feeling, since Childermass’s new stature would separate them further and this was exactly what Segundus wanted.

So he spoke with as much aloofness as he could muster.       

“I see you are practicing your speech. I find it much improved from last night, though making Vinculus undress before everyone was an admirable ploy.”

“Mr Segundus,” Childermass grunted, clearly annoyed. “I’m trying to persuade you. Will you keep denying that you disagree only in order to displease me?”

“No, I will not,” Segundus said with a sigh. “And I do agree, we need societies. Then there’s the book, who is also a man, and I’m afraid he’s not the simplest of men to deal with.”

“He isn’t,” Childermass huffed, but his eyes were alight with amusement. “I could do with your help in that regard, Mr Segundus. Vinculus and I are very prone to quarrel, and I must say that some days I end up thinking it was not so bad when he couldn’t speak or move at all...but this is another story,” he added, when he caught sight of Segundus’s fretful look. “You may reason with him better than I do.”

“You mean to say that my experience as a madhouse keeper would serve well.”

“I was rather thinking about your gentleness,” Childermass murmured, looking intensely at him. “You know I’m not the most patient of men at times, and Vinculus would irk a saint. But I’m also interested in your ability to sense magic and your soundness. We need gentlemen like you, Mr Segundus.”

It was a mystery how Childermass could be so infuriatingly perceptive, able to catch the flimsiest thread - a word, a look, a mood - and weave it into a pattern leading exactly where he meant; and at other times so awfully unaware. Which was not his being tactless - even this had its uses from time to time; it was not his tendency to boss people around without really let them know it.

No, it was temporary imbecility, as if he could not see the way Segundus’s feelings crumpled under his inattentive steps. _Gentlemen like you_. There was no talking there of John Segundus. He was a member of some kind of category which could play a part in Childermass’s plans. _There’s no one like me_ , another would have protested, but even if Segundus had believed it - and he did not - it was not his place to say it.

And Childermass did not want that place either, so there they were.

“I will think about it,” Segundus promised, looking at the floor.

This way he did not see Childermass coming closer, but he breathed in the smell of tobacco.

“Now, tell me. If I come to Starecross to speak with you, will you at least come to the door to send me away yourself? Or will you ask your maid to dismiss me?”

Segundus raised his head and held Childermass’s heavy gaze.

“What is it, Mr Childermass? Do you sit too high now that you won’t have a maid talk to you?”

Childermass snorted.

“You know that it is not the case. But I’d rather speak to you at the door, knowing that we’re in plain sight and within the hearing of too many, than not speaking to you at all. Even here, whispering and hiding behind pillars, it’s better than nothing. But I would have more, if you allowed it. I’m not staying in town, but I could do with some hot soup before the meeting...and you at my table.”

Segundus shook his head and tried to take a step back, but he seemed to have forgotten how to move at the rough but cajoling note in Childermass’s invitation.

“You talk of it as if I was a piece of cheese to go with your soup and bread, or a spoon.”

“If you were so easily stolen as a spoon, Mr Segundus...” Childermass grumbled, clearly amused at the idea - which was not what Segundus had intended. And he blushed at the silliness of it.

“You should not take advantage of my foolish comments, Mr Childermass. And I cannot...I won’t have supper with you. Nor I will come to the door to ask you to leave.”

“Ask me to come in then. I’ve got answers for you this time. Not all of them, and maybe you won’t like some of them, picky as you are, but if you would just ask me to talk I...”

“I have been asking for years,” Segundus interrupted, his voice unsteady and a little too high. He fell silent, because a gentleman in prayers had turned his head toward them. “I have been asking,” he repeated, pitifully. “Not that you ever thought proper to answer. Now, please, leave me.”

Childermass said nothing for a few moments, then he gave a deep sigh.

“I am afraid that each time I leave you, that infuriating brain of yours starts mulling and brooding, and it bites and paws at every word and look of mine with the sole purpose of making a mush of it. And so you convince yourself that my leaving you means that I do not have any regard for you.”

“And doesn’t it?”

“No, it has never meant anything like it.”

“So it was a sign of your regard, your leaving me each time. Or sending me on my way, I had some of that as well.”

“You know it is more complicated than this.”

“No, it is not really,” Segundus said and it was as if suddenly could see it very well - how easy it could have been. How _merciful_. He took a step back, both in his mind and in reality.

“I had to make choices. I won’t apologise for those,” Childermass said between his gritted teeth.

Segundus blinked. He felt stunned, as if someone had hit him right in the chest, not only taking away his breath, but also bending his ribs till they closed very painfully around his heart, and squeezed it dry. Never before had he realised that he had been waiting for an apology, not in so many words at least; he had been waiting though, and now the waiting was finished, because Childermass did not think that he owed him anything of the sort. Which was very Childermass-like, half pigheadedness and half pride; the point was that Segundus had thought himself worth some of the man’s pride, but he had been wrong.    

“Yes, you have always chosen,” he agreed. _Only you never chose me_.

He saw that Childermass had guessed the rest, because he looked alarmed and slightly incredulous, like a man who has just felt his glass slip between his fingers and knows that in an instant it will be in pieces on the floor. And Segundus did feel scattered, as if someone had been picking at his thoughts and his emotions and then send them rolling around like marbles.

“I’ll see you at the meeting,” Childermass told him when Segundus moved away.

He sounded angry, but it mattered nothing because Segundus was angry as well. And he was made even angrier by the sudden fancy, as he was leaving the Cathedral, that one day someone would make the statues talk again and one little stone figure would surely recall how it had witnessed something quite impossible - how a human heart could be persuaded to fracture into smaller pieces when it should have reasonably be already beyond repair.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] A detailed record of the so-called _miracle of York_ would appear in 1818, under the title _A Short History of the Spell of the Talking Statues of York, as performed by Mr Norrell, Magician_ compiled by Tom Levy. Many would find the occurrence rather peculiar, considering that Levy had been among Jonathan Strange’s pupils - the most talented, some pointed out; the most dangerous, others remarked - and it stood to reason that he might not want to describe Gilbert Norrell’s first public achievement. Besides, Tom Levy had not been there at the time and this cast suspicions upon the veracity of his account, at least until second edition appeared in print - for the book was a success, owing also to its flowing, captivating prose and its interesting insight. It was accompanied by an introduction by John Segundus, where it was revealed that Segundus had been Tom Levy’s main eyewitness for the episode. His reputation as a honest, reliable gentleman magician did much against the detractors of the little book. Yet the introduction did not explain why Tom Levy should devote his time to such an endeavour, when his main interests had always lay in practical magic and its applications rather than history. It has recently circulated in some slightly unreliable publications a short, anonymous article which argues that it was John Childermass who persuaded Levy to write the _Talking Statues of York_ , since an account on Gilbert Norrell’s spell by one of Strange’s pupils would serve the cause of the reconciliation between the two parties. This argument was dismissed by some eminent scholars, especially those of what nowadays we refer to as the _Bloomsbury School_ of London, who asserted that Mr Childermass had rather always worked _against_ such a chance of reconciliation and so it must have been John Segundus who had encouraged Tom Levy.


	4. Strange Partings

_August 31 st, 1809_

 

He was the most wonderful man Segundus had ever met.

_And the strangest_ , he thought, smiling to himself at the silliness of the joke. He felt allowed to it though, since the Stranges themselves seemed happy to indulge in such puns among friends. They were fine people, Mr and Mrs Strange, and she was the finest woman, one who had not as much as blinked when her husband had unexpectedly invited Segundus and Mr Honeyfoot to extend their stay to the very eve of their departure for London.

Surely Mrs Strange had better things to attend to before leaving Yorkshire, rather than entertaining two guests with whom she and her husband had only recently become acquainted. The odd circumstances of their first meeting partly excused the rapid, unusual course of their association, but Segundus suspected that Jonathan Strange was the kind of husband who often caught his wife by surprise with unannounced guests, largely unreasonable whims, and - considering that the man was a practical magician - sudden explosions.

Yet Mrs Strange had been as enchanting and spirited as ever. Segundus could not help liking her, though he feared that he liked her all the more since he happened to like her husband so much; anything different would have been unfair and there was not a drop of unfairness left in Segundus after such a glorious evening.

Indeed he was more than a little dazed, as the result of the claret which had been served at dinner, followed by some aged brandy poured with generosity in their glasses, and combined with the spells Strange had been casting. Segundus felt them thrum at his temples and skim over his skin like the buzzing, unquiet air which announces a storm; and when Strange did his magic, it fell like lightning.

And like lightning it was quick and slightly dangerous, equal parts blind and blinding; it was impossible to say what it would happen and Strange himself candidly admitted that he had no idea of what he was doing most of the time (though Segundus perceived that it was said with some frivolousness). This magic pulsed and glowed in the darkness of the evening, making Segundus’s head spin like a moth around a flame.

Mrs Strange seemed concerned with the amount of spirit flowing into their glasses and surveyed all the proceedings with a critical eye, but it was clear that beneath the amusement she displayed at her husband’s doings she was as keen as him about his future as a magician.

“I was the one who asked that he should find himself a profession,” she had confessed when they had first met at the Shadow House. It had been said with a hint of apprehension, but also with pride.

At the beginning of their acquaintance Segundus had wondered if she believed that her husband’s magic was a token of his love for her and if that was the reason of her rejoicing in it. Then he had realised that she was perfectly aware of how Strange could grow completely absorbed in himself and his spells. So it was not his love for her she saw there, only his happiness. It was to her credit that she accepted it and trusted him though she had never tried magic herself.

“One magician in the family is enough, I think,” she had said, her gaze warm but firm.

Segundus had felt naive. Arabella Strange was younger than him and yet she could see past Mr Strange’s facetious ways better than Segundus could ever hope to do. Neither did she need to have ever read about magic to converse with them and speak her mind, wisely and judiciously like some Roman matron. Indeed she was a great lady in all regards, in spite of the fact that her original station had been inferior to Mr Strange’s.

“I’ll turn all the fields of England into orchards. There will be apple trees, pear trees, peach trees, plum trees, cherry trees, fig trees, pomegranate trees...” Strange mumbled some other _trees_ , but apparently he had exhausted his imagination for the time being and when he murmured _strawberry trees_ his wife patted his hand in a consolatory way. “All kinds of trees,” he cut it short, hitting the small table with his open palm and making their glasses rattle. “England will be a garden, bearing fruits all the year round. Magic will bend rivers and sprout leaves, the air will smell like flowers and magic, and magic...truly, you must see as clearly as I do what kind of world that will be. An endless Spring, all hunger banished, no more sowing and reaping, no more tenants sent from their houses and eradicated from their lands, one will have only to lift his hand...” he demonstrated it, raising his hand toward his wife’s face, “and take the fruit from the tree.”

He touched her face, with less carelessness than Segundus had foreseen. Segundus wondered if Strange was not so dazed as he appeared, and rather thickened and slowed his speech on purpose only to be allowed to indulge in that visionary, disorderly kind of talking, changing topic at his pleasure and daydreaming in the presence of guests.

Arabella tilted her head to press her cheek against her husband’s fingers and her lashes trembled a little in the firelight. Segundus caught himself spying them, so he turned away hastily.

“Can you see it, England made into an orchard?” Strange insisted.

Segundus would have sworn that Strange was now looking at his wife, at her face which was undoubtedly pretty but not exceptionally so, and still would win all the gazes in the room as soon as it was touched by a smile. She often smiled. And she possessed an even more enviable quality, for she often made Mr Strange smile.    

“Yes, yes, I can clearly see it!” Mr Honeyfoot agreed with enthusiasm.

Segundus said nothing. He could feel it though - the light dyed green by the trees’ foliage, the warm pulp of a peach and the juice running between his fingers, the benevolent and yet powerful pull of Strange’s magic. Which was exactly what Segundus had ever dreamt about magic. He had not immediately realised how disappointed he had been in the presence of Gilbert Norrell. Jonathan Strange was very different from Mr Norrell and it was easy to admire him, so easy that one could fall in the habit of watching each turn of those clever fingers and each flicker of concentration burning like a star on his brow.

And so one would be contented with tasting magic through that face and those hands and that voice.

“It is very impractical,” Arabella pointed out. His hand was no longer cupping her cheek; she had moved closer to the fireplace and was stoking the fire with precise, little movements. “That endless Spring of yours would leave too many people without anything to do in the world. They would be fed, but they would also be idle. Idleness, Mr Strange, undoes all the good in a man.”

“And that, my friends, is my wife’s grim, unforgiving gaze. Wouldn’t they be happy?”

“Only for a while,” she said, smiling as if this was an old argument between them, one they had both grown very fond of. “Then in their idleness they would turn to drink and gambling, they would grow bored with their happiness and look for fresher feelings to cultivate, falling prey of all kinds of temptations. So your orchard would ruin them from first to last.”

“And that’s how she enjoys darkening my picture,” Strange sighed, but he did not sound annoyed. Indeed it was quite cheerfully that he added: “Speaking of which, you must shew them some of your drawings, my dear. They have grown very whimsical of late, despite all her talking of common sense and practicality.”

“I can’t help it,” she admitted, looking down at her hands for a moment now that she was seated in a chair at her husband’s side. “With you talking magic around me most of the time...I am afraid that if I listen too closely, I will no longer look at the landscape without seeing faces in the trees and patterns in the sky.”

“You’re making us only more eager to look at your drawings, Mrs Strange,” Honeyfoot piped in. “Isn’t it so, Mr Segundus?”

“Of course, but I feel we should not force...”

“You’re very kind, but I do not feel forced to anything,” Arabella interrupted him, rising from the chair. Honeyfoot and Segundus both jumped to their feet, only Strange did not leave his chair - he was looking at the flames in the fireplace through his glass, studying the way the reflection painted figures in it.

“Do you think one could make a servant out of flames?” he mused “When I was a child in Edinburgh, my cousin Isa convinced me that there were people living in the fireplace.”

Segundus tried to recall if there was something in Pale’s experience of fairy servants which would answer Strange’s question, but he was distracted by the sudden weight of Arabella’s hand in the crook of his arm.

“Will you help me carry my albums, Mr Segundus?”

“I...I am at your service, madam.”

And so she led him out of the drawing room, down the corridor and to the not very large study in the south wing of the house. They did not talk along the way, but as soon as they were in the study Segundus felt compelled to speak.

“I must tell you how grateful we are, Mr Honeyfoot and I, for inviting us here. I understand that this is a very delicate time of your lives, Mrs Strange, now that you are leaving Shropshire for London. You must have longed for some solitude during these two weeks of our stay and I’m afraid we were poor company. You must have been very bored with all our talking of magic and our experiments and quotes from books we don’t own...”

“I wasn’t really,” she laughed softly, while she opened one drawer and then another. “Please, do not apologise anymore or you will convince me that I have been very unhappy during your stay. I haven’t. In fact, I am glad. Jonathan, you see...oh, sure you see it: he is very good when he sets his mind to it, but he can also be very erratic.”

“I think it a mark of his brilliancy,” Segundus said stiffly, piqued on Strange’s behalf. “Any very intelligent man would find it difficult to focus on a single endeavour, unless it is very grand.”

“Like magic, you mean.”

“I was under the impression that you approved.”

“I do. Though I suppose I should know more about this magic of yours to approve. But I’ll be at his side, that’s settled. What I meant to say is that meeting you helped him focus. First the man under the hedge, then you two at the Shadow House, and then...” she stopped, because she had found her albums. Segundus was under the impression that she had always known where they were and the show of looking around the room had been for the sake of this conversation. “My brother and Jonathan have been friends for a long time, but I’m afraid he’s no match for Jonathan when it comes to magic. And my husband had already grown restless with only Henry and me to talk to about his new endeavour...until you appeared in his dream.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Segundus murmured helplessly.

Yet the dream, like all of Strange’s magic, had drawn him in. It surely owed to the powerful charm of the Shadow House and its last owner Miss Absalom, but there was something overwhelming about the way Strange practiced and talked magic. At dinner he had enchanted all the spoons - to shew them what he meant by difficulties in teaching his magic to distinguish between _this_ spoon and _that_ spoon - and made them clink their heads - their bowls - together while they were waiting for the soup.

Segundus had felt almost faint from a mixture of magic and admiration, and if his paleness had not been remarked upon it was only because during the days they had spent at the Stranges’s house he had had plenty of chances to make a fool of himself. His sensitivity to magic had captured Strange’s interest for a couple of days, during which he had followed Segundus like a curious, playful hound, musing aloud about the sort of applications such a quality could have. Since he had discovered none so far, he had grown bored and turned to other, and more challenging, objects, always popping boiled eggs into his mouth[1].   

“I’m glad we met you,” Arabella told him. And it was clear that she meant it, so Segundus made an effort to vanquish any dispiriting thought and smiled back at her.

“It is an honour madam. I hope we will be friends even now that you’re moving to London.”

“Oh, more than ever Mr Segundus!” she assured him fervently. “You’ll write, won’t you? And we’ll be telling you all about Jonathan’s meeting with this Mr Norrell.”

“I see that you’re worried,” Segundus suggested, softening his tone.

“You enjoy my husband’s company.” Though it was what he had never denied and always shewn, hearing it from her - of all people! - made Segundus flinch in embarrassment. But at least she was turned from him, making sure that all the albums were in order before carrying them to the drawing room for the men’s inspection. “I think everybody does when he’s in good humour,” she continued, apparently unaware of how distressed Segundus felt. Actually, she sounded like she was reproaching herself for something she had done or thought. “Jonathan can be very winning...and obstinate too. Yet I wonder...I wonder if this Norrell will like him and take him as a pupil when you have described him like a sort of hermit.”

“Well, he’s a hermit who has moved to London and whose celebrity has been increasing over the past two years,” Segundus replied, while she piled the albums in his arms. “We may infer that he has grown more...”

“But he has never taken a pupil before. And he made all the magicians in York - I mean all except you - sign a terrible contract to renounce to their magic. Do you really find my doubts unreasonable?”

“I don’t, but I also feel that Mr Strange must take this chance. You must see that the York Society of Magicians wasn’t truly...a match for Mr Norrell. Theoretical magicians, all of us,” he smiled gently. “But Mr Strange is a practical magician. To my knowledge there is only another one in England.”

“And while one has all the books, the other has none. Oh I see it,” Arabella said, her lips pursued.

She thought it unfair, Segundus could see as much and felt a deep sympathy for her.      

“Mr Norrell will teach him, he _must_ : it’s just the two of them out there.”

“You’re a magician yourself,” she pointed out, eyeing him.

She was standing between him and the door, so he could not really leave.

“Not really. I have no books nor your husband’s natural skills. You saw me try to replicate what your husband does so easily. I observed him, I mimicked all his gestures and words, and still I don’t succeed; he tried to teach me, and I assure you he’s a very good teacher and I would have been honoured to be his pupil; yet I can’t learn,” he managed to keep the bitterness out of his voice and, as for his eyes, they were downcast. “So I wouldn’t say I’m much of a magician, Mrs Strange.”

“I think it is a matter of belief.”

“I beg your pardon,” Segundus said, a little irked this time, “but I could not believe in magic more than I already do.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Yet she did not say what she meant, but made to leave the study. Segundus meekly followed while he mentally reproached himself for not having offered her more comfortable thoughts on the eve of their departure. So he racked his memories to find some encouraging detail about Mr Norrell’s character.

“Childermass says that Mr Norrell likes to have things his own way. One may suppose that the gentleman is difficult to please and indeed I left his house under the impression that we had been in the presence of a great magician...but also a very fastidious gentleman.” Arabella had turned to listen, her eyes calm and reassuring - Segundus had never thought that dark eyes could be so, and yet hers were not the only ones he had seen warm in encouragement. “Yet Childermass also says that Mr Norrell is not unfair. It may be that he does not like noise and discomfort: many scholars do not and Mr Norrell may be one of the greatest scholars of our age, and surely the first authority on magic in our days. Therefore I think we may forgive him some eccentricity...it seems that he still does not enjoy ballrooms and parties, even when they are thrown in his honour, but one hears so many disparaging notions about the _beau monde_ that I’m not sure I’d disagree with him on this point. This, you see, proves that Mr Norrell is not fooled by shallow appearances, otherwise I’m sure he would have found plenty of pupils in London. No, his judgement must be fair, as Childermass says, and he will fairly judge your husband and see for himself that he must take him as his pupil.”

“I heard you and Mr Honeyfoot talk about this Childermass, but I haven’t really understood what role he plays in Mr Norrell’s household. He is not his pupil, you said, yet he is more than a servant my husband has decided - as if the fact that he has opinions separated him from those one calls servants of the house.”

“I’d say it rather owes to how he expresses his opinions, madam,” Segundus replied, though he was beginning to feel uncomfortable about talking of Childermass. He regretted that he had made Childermass’s remarks, expressed in confidence between them, known to others, especially since the Stranges would soon make his acquaintance in London. “Mr John Childermass is Mr Norrell’s man of business. I believe he has Mr Norrell’s trust in many matters, including his...rising as a magician.”

“He also does unpleasant things for his master, like disbanding the Magicians of York and snatching books before anyone can even think to buy them in Mr Norrell’s place.”

“Yet I do not think he would be your enemy,” Segundus murmured, without knowing why he now felt compelled to defend Childermass’s character.

Surely Mrs Strange had a flair for pointing out people’s faults and yet she did it without cruelty or malice; she had, Segundus reasoned, an instinctive ability to recognise right from wrong, and though she did not advocate for any punishment, her observations never missed their mark. And she was impartial, as her serene awareness of her husband’s flaws proved.

_She must think me a fool_ , Segundus mused, since her words had urged him to defend first her husband, then Mr Norrell, and now Childermass, as if any of them needed to find a champion in an insignificant gentleman from Yorkshire who answered to the name of John Segundus.

“I don’t know what to think of Mr Norrell or Mr Childermass,” she was telling him, shoulders drooping slightly under the light-blue cotton of her summer dress. “I fear I won’t be very good in London, but you see that Jonathan has high expectations.”

“I understand it. You say that talking magic with me and Mr Honeyfoot did him good, but I think he’s already growing frustrated with our opinions...please, Mrs Strange, do not be vexed on my account!” he said, noticing her frown. “Truly, I’m not complaining, for I have been very happy to be your guest and to talk with your husband, yet I know that he wishes to talk of practical magic and practice magic under some guidance. He wishes for books and...and for an equal, Mrs Strange. That I am not.”

“It is very inconvenient that you are not Mr Norrell,” Arabella replied, after a moment of silence. “For then I would know Mr Norrell for a kind-hearted, unassuming gentleman, one I would be sure to like and be glad to call friend.”

Segundus bowed without a sound, touched by her words. Only it was a clumsy bow, with all her albums still gathered in his arms.

“Oh do not worry!” she begged him, when he gave a distressed noise at the fall of one of the albums. She bent down to retrieve it and then clutched it to her chest with a smile. “There, nothing happened. It is unusual for Jonathan to be so interested in my pastimes, yet he has developed an obsession for my drawings, could you believe that?”

She was still smiling, and Segundus wondered if she really did not feel bitter about his distracted ways. He was a very tender husband, that much was clear, but sometimes there was a certain forgetfulness in his manners, a fickleness of the kind one observes in children. Another woman would not have noticed, also considering how largely he provided for her, but Arabella Strange was perceptive, gentle yet not pliant. Still, if she was pained by her husband’s manners, it did not shew.

How unbecoming that he, Segundus, should feel so acutely Mr Strange’s flightiness when Arabella bore it so graciously - and she his wife! He felt unjust and vile at being so easily disappointed in Jonathan Strange - what right had he to be disappointed at all? - and yet he would have been grateful if Strange had listened more. One was often under the impression that Strange did not really listen, at least not like Childermass would.

Yes, it would have been pleasant to be the object of such an intent, unwavering focus. To know that Strange was paying attention to every word of his, and would remember their exchanges and later ponder about the topics they had discussed to come up with a new response, another argument, a surprising view. And to feel encouraged to expand the conversation and lead it, rather than being subjected to the rapid, disorienting shifting of Strange’s interest.

_He is a vain man_ , Segundus told himself, half-horrified at how easy it was to think of it after all. Oh, if Jonathan Strange had been less self-centred and more like Childermass it would have been easier to talk to him, to share with him one’s wishes and ambitions, and even believe...

“I’m sure your drawings deserve all the attention,” Segundus replied lamely.

“Would you like us to bring any message to Mr Childermass?” Arabella asked, as if she had been given insight to Segundus’s thoughts.

“What?” he gasped. It was always a kind of shock to hear Childermass’s name from others, as if they had caught Segundus at fault and their words carried an obscure accusation against him.

“Only I think that if you wrote to him about Jonathan, it may help,” Mrs Strange explained. She pursued her lips, then sighed. “I may be asking too much, forgive me. I did not mean to impose on you so, only this man may have some influence on Mr Norrell. Besides, you and Mr Honeyfoot depicted him as a practical kind of man, so it may turn out that he’s also more reasonable than his master. A few words from a common friend may improve our introduction.”

“Madam, I would gladly do you and your husband such a service, but I am not sure that anything I could write would influence Mr Childermass one way or another...Indeed, I haven’t heard from him in a long time,” he confessed, his hands crushing the albums a little, “and I don’t know how a message from me would be received and if there could be any advantage to be sought there.”

“But you _know_ him, don’t you?”

 

*

    

_February 10 th, 1809_

 

_To feel that you know someone is a most deceptive feeling_ , Segundus mused. He was not, mind you, concerning himself with duplicity in its broader and cruder sense, namely wolves in sheep’s clothing and so forth, nor with the prejudices standing in the way of any sincere wish to get to know another human being. He was rather thinking of how the mind attempts to draw a meaningful and truthful portrait starting from details which, in retrospect, may very well be less meaningful than one supposed when he caught sight of them. As if knowing the colour of a man’s eyes, the shape of his nose, and the cut of his hair was enough to paint his face; as if a few meetings, a bunch of letters, and some particular words could say anything of the man as a whole. Oh no, that would not do: the man’s face is still a blur and his character a mystery.

Take a look, for instance, at Childermass.

Who is very conveniently focused on the act of lighting his pipe, so he will not mind if Segundus’s eyes linger more than propriety and discretion admit. So, this man, this John Childermass, is not unknown to John Segundus, and yet would Segundus dare venture as far as to say that he knows him?

There are times when Segundus thinks of John Childermass and there he is, a distinct figure cut out from a consistent, if not altogether continuous, narrative. Then he feels that he has grasped the nature of the man, the solid, recognisable core that bears the name John Childermass. At times, Segundus can even imagine that he has gained some kind of advantage over unnamed others; that he has been made part of looks, words, and tones that are _more_ Childermass than what he may show to others. That there is, in other words, a sort of understanding between them, one that allows Segundus to see Childermass clearly and truthfully.

At other times though, Segundus’s grasp slips. Childermass’s image grows unclear and Segundus no longer trusts his perception. If a moment before he feels competent enough to explain how Childermass _works_ to a third party, he suddenly finds himself at a loss and doubts everything he has ever learnt about this man. Then he convinces himself that this Childermass he sometimes thinks to know is but a figment of his imagination, no more similar to the real John Childermass than the little, quite naive watercolour of a whale hanging over the table resembles the real animal gliding through deep, dark waters.  

Then even the most trivial sights leave Segundus full of wonder.

Take Childermass’s hands. One cannot help noticing that they are fine hands, slim and pale with long fingers and short but well-trimmed nails, and yet they do not defy Childermass’s station. Indeed, they are hands which have known hard work, as their rough texture proves. In truth their hands have never touched: Childermass is not the kind of man who goes around shaking the hands of his peers, let alone of other men, and if this very morning Segundus was prompted to offer his hand in a friendly gesture, Childermass’s hand was gloved.

Still, it is enough to look at those hands to guess how unsmooth they are, to feel how dry and coarse the skin is, to sense that there must be a smell of tobacco and ink lingering on the fingertips. So, you see, they are not very extraordinary hands; quite commonplace, in fact. And yet the more Segundus sees of them, the more complicated their movements appear - how measured, how purposeful! For there is an economy to every gesture of Childermass’s, as in every speech he delivers and feeling he displays.

But as to deciphering those hands...in truth he may not know them better than the fins of the whale.  

“You are staring, Mr Segundus.” Childermass was now looking at him, the pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth, a kind of alert amusement in his dark eyes. “Have you developed an interest in watercolours? Or is it the whale?”

Segundus released the breath he was holding, though the colour in his cheeks did not recede. He had been caught staring at the picture on the wall rather than at Childermass, which would have been considerably more inconvenient. So relieved, he replied:

“I apologise, I did not mean to appear distracted. I was wondering if a whale would look like that.”

Childermass turned his head, while he blew some smoke. His eyes narrowed on the picture, so Segundus took another look at it: it was not an excellent piece and he felt sure that the landlord had bought it at a small price - it might even be the way a guest in difficulties had paid for his room or another bowl of supper. Yet he found that there was something endearing in the choice of colours (the blues for the sea and the whale, and the touches of red and yellow for the sailors in the launch) and rather than a hunt it seemed to portray a very happy meeting on the waves.

“You’ve never seen one, have you?” Childermass asked, straightening again against the wall behind.

Segundus shook his head.

“Have you?”

“I got on a whaler once, in Whitby.”

Segundus blinked. He had not known that Childermass had ever been something of a seaman and the revelation only deepened his feeling of being still unacquainted with the real Childermass - a thought which inexplicably saddened him.

“Was it before Norrell?” he asked shyly.

“Yes, long before.”

Then Childermass smoked some more and said nothing. Segundus, who would have gladly listened to some account from his time on the whaler (had he been a sailor then or a passenger? Did whalers ever take passengers?), felt that insisting on the subject would be indiscreet. So he dropped it in favour of asking the question which had been at the back of his mind since the morning.

“Why have you invited me to join you for supper?”

Childermass did not seem taken by surprise. Indeed, the look he directed at Segundus appeared to say _it has taken you very long to ask_.

“You have been writing letters to me.”

Segundus felt a sharp jolt of annoyance at the choice of words. _We have been writing each other letters_ , he amended in his head, though it was true that he had been the first to address a message to Mr John Childermass of Hanover Sq., London, not so many months after Hurtfew Abbey had been vacated. But Childermass, after a few weeks, had replied. And Segundus had done the same.

And so on, composing a string of letters - some more on Segundus’s part, but that was because he had been eager to develop or amend an argument, so he had added a second or third letter without waiting for a reply first.

“Your last letter did not mention you’d travel to Yorkshire,” Segundus decided to point out.

This was the reason why he had been so startled to see Childermass walking down Petergate that very morning. And since he had been under the impression that the man was not overly pleased with their chance meeting, the invitation to dinner had only increased Segundus’s surprise.

Now they were in a private room on the first floor of a inn that, if not disreputable, was not fashionable either. It was the sort of inn, looking on the outskirts of the city, that was favoured by travellers who did not have business in York but only meant to spend the night in a dry, clean place and be charged fairly for such comforts. It was also a place where you ran the least chance of meeting anyone from town. Segundus suspected that the choice was not casual.    

“I’m on a errand for Mr Norrell. Several errands in fact,” Childermass replied around the stem of his pipe.

“Am I detaining you from your duty then?” Segundus asked, feigning lightness.

Childermass studied him for a moment.

“I thought it would please me to talk to you in person for once, rather than by ink and paper.”

“Does it?” Segundus could not bring himself to say _please you_ , but it tingled on his tongue.

“Yes.”

“Yet you are not in a talkative mood, if I may say.”

“I have much on my mind, Mr Segundus.”

“Has this anything to do with the fact that you are not staying at Hurtfew?”

“I’m staying at Hurtfew.” Segundus frowned, but he did not need to ask anything. “It is not my call to invite you there though,” Childermass explained patiently, as if he had been speaking to a child.

Irked, Segundus took a swig of beer, washing away the taste of currant pudding from his mouth. When he lowered the pewter mug onto the table, he saw that Childermass was not looking at him but again at the watercolour of the whale, and still there was something alert in his posture, as if he was very aware of Segundus.

“I must...” Segundus started, not quite knowing what he was going to say. “I must thank you. For your letters. I understand that you were under no obligation to answer them and yet you obliged me. I have found our correspondence very stimulating, sir: the thoughts and ideas we discussed on paper did much to relieve my spirit whenever I felt that my study of magic would lead nowhere and that I was no less ignorant on the subject than when you first met me. It is very difficult to learn anything without books or masters, and yet I feel that our correspondence enlightened me and guided my interest; despite our disagreements on many points, I...”

“It must stop, sir, you are aware of that.” Childermass was looking straight into his face now. He smoked, he observed Segundus. His voice was neutral, as if he was commenting on the weather. “I shall no longer receive your letters.”

“Have I offended you, Childermass?” Segundus blurted out.

“No, you haven’t. Others, though, would be offended by our correspondence, sir.”

“By _others_ you mean Mr Norrell.”

He could not help it - the bitter taste around that name, a man he had seen only once, and a magician the world was learning to respect; still, Segundus had developed a faint dislike of him, despite the fact that he could not say that he had ever heard Childermass complain about his master or dismiss him (in truth, honest as he was, Segundus was troubled by the thought that this lack of complaint might be the very reason of his aversion for Mr Norrell, when he himself often felt chided by Childermass’s remarks).

“Norrell?” Childermass repeated; not surprised though, only tired - maybe also disappointed, as if he had credited Segundus with more subtlety. “It is not Norrell. Not that he would be pleased if he knew, but here the point is that you are corresponding with a servant. It is not something a gentleman can get away with for a long time. Even if that servant is me, sir.”

The word _servant_ fell between them like a coin flipped into the air.

Segundus felt that he had bet and lost, for he had deceived himself into thinking that Childermass’s mind mattered more than his status in society and he had thought that the man felt the same - did he not behave this way, aware of his intellectual advantage? Did he not take pride in his qualification of _steward_ to Mr Norrell, as he had introduced himself that fateful night at the Minster?

And yet he was now capable of looking straight at Segundus and declaring himself a servant.

“It is ridiculous. I am a gentleman of very limited means,” Segundus said with some difficulty. “I have very little. Truly, I think you may be richer than me. That is if Mr Norrell pays you well.”

Childermass sighed. He had finished his pipe and now folded his hands on the table.

“My wages are good, sir.”

“I am embarrassing you,” Segundus said, annoyance and shame churning in his stomach.

“No, but I’m afraid you will regret what you’re saying tonight, come the morning.”

“And will you regret telling me that we shall no longer exchange letters?”

“Two men of very different stations in life cannot write each other letters without bringing reproach and shame upon themselves. And the one occupying the higher position will suffer more than the other. You have more to lose than me, Mr Segundus, you should be eager to cut this short.”

“And I should not have accepted your invitation to supper, I suppose.”

“I thought you’d prefer hearing it from me and this inn is discreet.”

Segundus’s thumb traced the rough pattern of cracks running along the table’s surface. Strangely enough, one of the things which nagged at him was how they had talked over dinner. It had felt strange at first, not being used to Childermass’s physical presence nor to his Northern accent (which had seemed to grow thicker the more their conversation had tightened around a few points on which they had disagreed). Later, the warm soup and Childermass’s nonchalance had worked on Segundus’s spirit, and his shyness had abated. Their conversation had flowed more easily and they had exchanged news about London and the North, returned to some points they had explored in the letters concerning Charles Hether-Grey’s conclusions about the identity of Francis Pevensey, and wondered what qualities a Yorkshire pudding should be judged by.  

Segundus did not look at Childermass when he spoke again.

“I thought you did not care for conventions.”

Childermass chuckled darkly.

“Only people with privileges can play at being unconventional. People who are born low, as I was, know better since the cradle.”

“But you...you raised yourself far above your birth.”

Childermass hummed.

“I’ve come very far over the years. Though I do not mind if my hands get dirty from time to time, there are lines I do not care to cross again and places I would rather not revisit. And I won’t, sir, inflict such harm on myself or you.”

“Or on Mr Norrell.”

“Or on Mr Norrell.”

“Was it very foolish of me to think we could be friends, Childermass?” Segundus asked.

“It is not wise to indulge any further in such thoughts. Besides, I will have to devote more time to my duties and there will be less and less travelling to the North. Mr Norrell has taken his right place in the world, I think, and he has acquired... _friends_. And though their influence on society must be reasonably greater than mine, they do not know Mr Norrell. I do.”

“It is _his_ reputation you worry for. Because if it was known that his man talks about magic with some theoretical magician - possibly the very embodiment of what Mr Norrell disapproves - it would shame Mr Norrell, wouldn’t it?”

“I can take troubles to protect Mr Norrell, but it does not mean that it is not done for your reputation as well, sir.”

Segundus could no longer sit at the table. His annoyance was turning into restlessness, so he rose from the chair and walked to the fireplace. He put his arm on the mantle and leant there, half-turned so he had not to look into Childermass’s quiet countenance.

_Glass_ , he thought. This conversation, this moment, was made of glass, and he was looking through it as if through a window. And he could see two images there, the outside and the inside. On the outside there was Childermass’s blank expression while he explained how a gentleman could not befriend a servant without consequences. Especially a servant who was not his own. And on the inside there was Segundus’s own face, and the hurt written across it. Though the two images shared the surface of the glass, they inhabited different places; they were carrying on two different conversations, and the more they talked, the more the two images split and grow distant. Childermass was busy with playing the servant - _playing the servant_ being a detached, humble façade that Segundus found particularly irksome; Segundus wanted to talk with the man there, not the servant, but the man eluded him.

“Here, I’ve brought you this.”

Childermass was beside him. Segundus had not heard him move from the table, but then he had been listening to his own thoughts since he was so displeased with Childermass’s words.

He looked at what Childermass was holding, then took it in his hands and studied it by the firelight.

“ _The Friends of English Magic **[2]**_ ,” he read. And below _publ. J. Murray_.

“It will be soon circulating in all England, Scotland and Wales. I thought you would like to have it first.”

“It is a familiar title,” Segundus said bitterly.

“I told you it was very good.”

The smell of burning wood mingled with that of Childermass’s tobacco, whose fragrance would linger on Segundus’s clothes long after their parting. The flame of candle on the table had dwindled to a small, bright point. It would soon expire and already the shadows in the room were longer, deeper. Segundus sighed.

“Congratulations, Childermass. You must be proud of this.”

He leafed through the periodical, glancing at the titles but abstaining from reading anything. He felt exposed enough without offering Childermass the sight of his hunger for new articles, new ideas, new words on magic; he did not want the man to glimpse the sort of expression he wore when he received his letters and the way it left Segundus’s face warm and tingling from smiling.

“I expect your master largely profited from your advice about this. Even if the name of the editor is...Lord Portishead, I see. I liked his _Child’s History of the Raven King_ and I heard good things of his life of Belasis, though I never managed to read it before...before you took away the books of the Society. Then I could not find any copy of it.”

“I could...” Childermass started, but he fell silent. Segundus could not see his face clearly. “This is not of my design, sir. If it was, I would have written to you to know your opinion about the use of such a title, knowing it was yours in the first place.”

Segundus shook his head. He had just found that, in the end, he did not care much for it.

“It is fine, Childermass, and I suppose it was really a good title. Time has come to start recording the revival of the English magic, Mr Norrell’s actions cannot stand alone. And in truth I think we will be glad that a man like Lord Portishead took upon himself the responsibility of doing it. I have never met him, but I heard he is a honourable and sound man, and I liked his prose.”

“He is what you say,” Childermass replied, but there was something morose in his tone. “He is not alone though, Mr Norrell...”

“I understand that your master has an hand in this. It could not be otherwise, since he would not want to see his fine work undone by inaccuracies and blunders: if Lord Portishead has his trust with this, it must be because he agrees with him on every point. The very knowledge Lord Portishead shows in this endeavour must come from Mr Norrell’s library, so I suspect he will be grateful enough for such a chance to comply with your master’s ideas.” Segundus suddenly realised that his words represented a serious accusation and lowered his eyes. “I beg your pardon, as you said I may regret my words in the morning.”

“Mr Norrell may be a difficult man, especially for those who do not know him well, yet he’s not unfair,” Childermass said calmly. “He recognises Lord Portishead’s merits and he will let him manage the periodical, since he has not time to take care of such an endeavour. Yet every man in his position would be keen on having a say in the matter. Who could say what sort of notions could circulate otherwise? Mr Norrell has responsibilities as the only practical magician in England.”

“He’s very fortunate to have you as his man of business, John Childermass.” Astonishingly, Segundus heard a sharp intake of breath. For want of something to do with his hands, he reached the index of the periodical. He studied it, tilting the volume toward the firelight. “Editorial by Portishead, articles by Mr Norrell, even a note by Lord Pole!, yet I can’t see you. Not with your name, surely, but a _nom de plume_ as the French say.”

“You will not find me there,” Childermass said roughly.

“Why?” Segundus asked, surprised. “You can discuss magic as well as any of these gentleman, with the sole exception of Mr Norrell whose practical experiences places him quite far from any of us. And yet I hope you will not mind me telling you how much I admire your prose, sir.” The colour of Segundus’s cheeks could owe to his proximity to the fire and the beer he had drunk. “You have acquired a great understanding of magic and you can discuss it so persuasively, I can’t see why you should not be invited to contribute to this periodical!”

“The answer is, again, that I am a servant.”

“I object,” Segundus bristled. “A way could have been found, could be found, to let you write...well, all that’s on your mind. Which is, generally speaking, of great interest, but I am sure you already know it, since you have never been very shy about your ideas, especially when they disagree with mine.”

This time he was under the impression that Childermass was smiling in darkness.

“You suppose I _want_ to contribute. I don’t.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Segundus shivered under the weight of Childermass’s gaze, despite the fact that he could not really see his eyes. There was a movement in the room, and Segundus found himself hitting the edge of the mantel with his shoulders. The point was that no one had shoved him, not even touched him.

_Cornering myself, that’s just what I’m doing_ , he thought, noticing with some confusion that Childermass must have walked to the table and was currently trying to relight his pipe. Segundus heard him swear under his breath.

“You have some guts, sir, calling me a liar,” Childermass grumbled.

“I haven’t...” Segundus began.

“It may be that I don’t _need_ it. It’s not time, I’ll wait for my time.”

“Wait?”

“I’m a Northerner, sir. We wait.”

“For what?” Segundus asked, exasperated. He was not used to arguing with Childermass without a great distance between them. It was not that he feared that the man would hit him - for all his forbidding look, Childermass had never struck him as a violent man, not in a physical way. Still he was growing afraid that something would happen and at the same time afraid that something would _not_ happen. “Wait for Mr Norrell to give you your due and graciously allow you to write in _his_ periodical? He may pay you good wages, Mr Childermass, but he doesn’t...he doesn’t know your value.”

The pipe was lit. Childermass’s face was plain only for an instant, yet it was enough for Segundus to see him as he had never seen him before - _thrown off balance_. Childermass had never shown something akin to a naked emotion, at least not in a shape Segundus could recognise. It made Segundus feel guilty, as if he had forced Childermass to do something against his will.

“I apologise...” he sighed. From the glimmer of the pipe, he saw that Childermass was again on the move, this time to approach the fireplace. Segundus wondered if he should have left now, but he could not help himself. “Only I wonder how it would be if you were not Mr Norrell’s servant.”

Childermass, now closer, exhibited a grin.

“I couldn’t _not_ be his servant more than you could imagine to be a woman, Mr Segundus.”

“What if I was a woman then?”

As soon as he had spoken, Segundus wished he could take back his words. Childermass had stilled, the smoke from his pipe hanging in the air between them. Then, voice so slow that left Segundus under the impression that it was being _dragged_ upon the skin of his neck, warm and rough like a thumb brushing his goosebumps, Childermass replied:

“I am very aware of you being a man, Mr Segundus.”

Again, Segundus felt like he was at the window, but this time he did not know if what he saw was on the outside or inside the room. Childermass’s proximity confused him more than his words and the silence that followed them was almost unbearable. Segundus feared what he would say if he opened his mouth, so he kept it very shut, until Childermass spoke again.

“Go home, Mr Segundus. It does you no good to be here.”

Like a scolded child, his eyes lowered and his movements hurried, Segundus retrieved his coat and his hat. He would have forgotten _The Friends of English Magic_ if Childermass had not pressed it into his hands, all of a sudden, making sure that he would hold it tightly all the way to his rooms at Mrs Pleasance’s. Only when he got there and left the periodical fall upon his desk, did Segundus realise that Childermass’s hands on his own had felt rough and hot as he had imagined them to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] It has been recently rediscovered a little satirical libel published under the spurious name Arabella Estranged, where Strange was depicted as a magician who drew his powers from eating boiled eggs at all times of the day and the night. The libel, probably the work of a Norrellite under disguise, used this and other details of Strange’s domestic life to ridicule him and his work through a complex and not devoid of charm parody of Strange’s biography. There is proof that Mrs Strange did her best to suppress the publication, on the ground that it featured unauthorised copies of some of her old drawings. This accounts for the years of obscurity the libel suffered.   
> [2] AN. According to the book’s timeline, the first issue of _The Friends of English Magic_ was published in February 1808, not 1809. I postponed the event for my narrative purposes.


	5. Season's Greetings

_April 24 th, 1817_

 

It was the sort of day Segundus might have greatly enjoyed.

The hillsides overflowed with the tenderest green, while the earth itself had grown dark and supple like ripe berries, so that it softened and gave way under one’s steps - that is to say that there was also a good deal of mud around, but how could one mind it when the golden sun was melted in every puddle and trickled down every slope? And the first rose buds - that Segundus still loved despite what they meant to him after his dealings with Faerie - glowed among the thorns, while daffodils burst along streams and around ponds.

Most beautiful was the cherry tree, pink and white like a bride, standing at the corner of the garden. It had seemed dead the first time Segundus had visited Starecross, but he had refused to have it removed and now he knew that they would have cherries in May (in truth he had already penned the word _Cherry_ on the tags the cook would glue to the jars of preserve).

And there was a constant noise of birds, chirping and tweeting, crying and singing, picking at trunks and splashing into pools, and they crossed the sky back and forth like restless notes on a musical sheet.

All felt new and very young, and it was not that Segundus loved spring above the other seasons, but he was the kind of man who always tries to make the best of what he has been given, so he might have gone out to sit with his back against the cherry tree or simply opened his window to write with the sun pouring into his room, or again walked alone across the moor, collecting - or dispersing - thoughts.

He _might have_.

But then, upon opening his window - still sleepy and wearing only his nightshirt, yet feeling whimsical enough to indulge a desire of breathing in the light of dawn - what sight had greeted him? _Vinculus_. And not, mind you, a generic Vinculus, but a naked _and_ drunk Vinculus. Never before had Segundus faced the two states so coupled: of Vinculus’s nakedness everyone was having far too much, and he was drunk each time Cook forgot to lock the cellar (which was not half as infrequently as Segundus would have liked it, but then it was neither as frequently as Vinculus would have liked it).

The point was that nakedness and drunkenness applied to Vinculus just under one’s window was sensibly more distressing. Especially since Segundus had had to look twice or thrice, owing to his sleepiness as well as to his mind’s attempt to refuse to witness anything of the sort, to make sense of what he had spotted in the patch of honeysuckle. Which had consisted in a vast expanse of blue-scribbled skin, sprayed limbs, a mouth open wide in a powerful snore, and - alas! - a not-very-young lady in the act of adjusting her dress without showing great interest in wakening her partner[1].

 Segundus had closed the window with such force that all the sparrows perched on the garden walls had broken into a flight and the woman had scurried away, casting only a dark glance at the windows on the first floor; Vinculus, on the other hand, had carried on snoring in the honeysuckle patch.

At that point the morning was spoiled. Segundus had dressed, then gone down to distribute orders so that: Vinculus would be retrieved and led to his room, preferably clad in a nightgown; measures to cure Vinculus in his drunken state would be taken; the cellar would be examined to ascertain what was missing, and Cook would have to present Segundus with a new solution to keep Vinculus from any further raid. And since in the meanwhile they had discovered that the pantry had been plundered as well, Purfois and Hadley-Bright, who had already intended to get into town for magical supplies, had offered to take care of the new provisions. Which had only deepened the lines on Segundus’s forehead, since he doubted that either one of the pair was very well-versed in the art of striking good bargains, let alone judging a cut of meat.

Therefore he had sent both Cook and Charles with them, since he had no energy enough to argue against the young men’s desire to make themselves useful. And for good measure he had decided that Lucy would also go, so she could take this chance to visit her ailing mother. Only Tom Levy remained, but he had already retired to the library so that a whole day of study would not be wasted.

Segundus, on his part, waited for everyone to be out of sight and then went to the kitchen, hoping that a cup of tea would restore his spirit.

In fact he was up for a disappointment, since he was greeted with a sight more likely to shatter his nerves than offer him any comfort. Childermass was already there, riding boots on the table, the traces of his breakfast still evident, a book in his left hand and a cup of tea in the other, and if he raised his eyes from the pages upon Segundus’s entrance, he did nothing to correct his negligent posture. Actually, he cocked an eyebrow, as if to question Segundus about the distressed groan which had left his mouth at discovering another guest in the kitchen - and that being Childermass nonetheless!

“You will oblige me, sir, removing your feet from the table,” Segundus said.

He had briefly debated with himself the opportunity of a hasty retreat, but the mocking light in the other magician’s eyes - as if he had just guessed his thoughts - made Segundus obstinate. He decided to stay and have his tea, and some breakfast, exactly as he had planned.

“I suspect I would oblige you more if I removed myself from the kitchen altogether,” Childermass said, though he only lowered his boots and made no further movement.

But Segundus had no desire to let Childermass think that he needed to chase him out of the kitchen to have some peace of mind. It had been Segundus’s resolution for the past weeks to eradicate any preposterous idea about Childermass’s influence over him; he was quite indifferent to what the man did or said, or at least he was teaching himself to be so, and breaking his fast at the same table would prove his point.

_I hope_.

“Do not bother on my account, Mr Childermass.” Segundus hoped this would sound equal parts courteous and detached. But he could not help feeling increasingly annoyed at the man, who had clearly been left unscathed by the accidents which had befallen the rest of the household.  “I did not suppose you were in the house this morning, since I did _not_ see you while we were trying to convince Vinculus to cover himself and come inside. He tried to escape twice and broke a very nice flower pot in the attempt, which - together with the buttons he torn off from my waistcoat when we _brawled_ \- I still consider a small price compared to what could have happened.” Then, since Childermass did not seem inclined to speak, he half-cried: “Pray sir, were you unaware of what was going on in this house?”

“I am very curious as to what you may mean by _brawling_ with someone,” Childermass replied, his mouth curling in an amused grin. “But yes, I was aware.”

“And you made yourself scarce!”

“Aye,” Childermass nodded. His mouth was still soft from the smile, but his gaze had sobered. “I would have taken care of it,” he declared in a deep, final tone, fixing his unwavering black eyes upon Segundus. _How seriously he takes himself_ , Segundus thought, half in distaste and half in admiration. Then Childermass shrugged and turned to his book, murmuring: “But you disapprove of my methods.”  

“ _Methods_?” Segundus repeated. He heard the high-pitched note in his voice, so he tried to disguise his failing temper busying himself with the kettle. “Bullying the man, threatening him, maybe tying him up in the stables...those are not _methods_ civilised people care for, sir.”

“Then, sir, you see it is better for me to leave you to your own devices.”

“Oh, you are a most disobliging creature!”

Then Segundus gave a small whimper, for he had inadvertently brushed his hand against the hot surface of the stove, burning his little finger. He had no time to look around for cold water to quell the pain before Childermass was at his side in a couple of strides. Though partly aware of how fast Childermass would act when need arose, the situation hardly called for his aid - Segundus most certainly had not.

“Let me see your hand,” Childermass commanded, extending his own.

“Do not touch me,” Segundus snapped. Then, when he saw Childermass flinch, he added: “There’s no need, it’s only a small burn. Here, cold water will do.”

He poured water into a basin from a bucket and then put his scalded finger in. He sighed in relief, but out of the corner of his eye he saw that Childermass had not returned to his place. On the contrary, he was taking care of the kettle, transferring the boiling water to the teapot. The triviality of the sight and the warm rush of affection at the idea of Childermass making tea scared Segundus, so he was racking his mind for a scathing remark when the other man spoke.

“I know I am very disobliging. But I would gladly oblige you in all I can, only I don’t know how, for I seem to displease you whatever I do.”

Segundus felt both reassured and annoyed by the fact that Childermass had returned to his chair. On the one hand he was glad that he had put some distance between them; on the other he was bothered by the fact that Childermass clearly did not expect any reply to his ( _overly-dramatic and not at all endearing_ ) statement.

“Starecross is invaded, sir. Magicians from all over Yorkshire and beyond feel entitled to call at the most inconvenient times; Vinculus spends half of his time naked and the other half drunk, though I suppose there are times when he’s both; Strange’s pupils are so clever and eager that I feel my age as never before; I am developing a permanent headache and I am afraid my servants will quit soon if I do not find a way to manage all this.” Segundus sighed, took his hand out of the water and dried it carefully. “And _you_ brought this upon me.”

“Aye.”

“Is that all? You are not going to say anything else?”

“I would be at your service day and night if you ever let me think that my help would not offend you,” Childermass said calmly.

“I don’t want you to be at my service! I would only ask that you showed some...some repentance for how you _ambushed_ me in the assembly, offering Starecross as a base for the study of the book!”

“I did not offer Starecross. I merely pointed out the qualities we should have been looking for: a place large enough to welcome several magicians, far from the bustle of the city and yet not isolated. And in the North, obviously. It was clear to many people there that Starecross would serve the purpose better than any other place, since its advantages were known to most. Besides, this house has already known magic, Faerie magic and English magic. _Your_ magic.”

The way Childermass said it made Segundus blush - it was as if Childermass could verily touch the magic he was talking of, as if he could just _taste_ it. A shiver ran down Segundus’s spine and he tried to focus on the cup of tea he was now bringing to his lips. He had taken it to the counter rather than the table, so he could more easily and discreetly avoid Childermass’s gaze if need arose.

“I know you did not actually offer Starecross. _I_ did.”

“You were under no obligation...”

“But you knew I would do it!”

“I counted on your loyalty, your good sense, and your generosity. I knew you would feel obliged.”

“You still think it was a good idea though,” Segundus pointed out bitterly.

“Wasn’t it?” Childermass asked, daring Segundus with a firm gaze.

“It is,” Segundus mumbled into his cup. “But it is maddening.”

“The state of the house or...”

“Do not presume, sir!” Segundus scowled. Childermass only raised his brow. “I was obviously referring to the state of the house, not to your person in particular.”

“Nonetheless you are _particularly_ angry with me.”

“I beg you not to feign surprise at that,” Segundus grumbled. “I may have offered Starecross to the _cause_ , as you are pleased to call it, but you planned it all and convinced me to join the assembly of magicians for no other reason that making use of Starecross. You took my house from me and now wonder why the anger at you! Why do I always end up the poorer from your intervention?”

“First of all, I wanted you to join the assembly because you _belonged_ there. For years your obstinacy in becoming a magician has borne you through difficulties and prohibitions, and now that you have your chance you are displeased with it...only because it did not happen as in your dreams.”

Segundus’s cheeks coloured at the reproach, for he felt that it was quite accurate. Although he had learnt to adapt to circumstances, even unpleasant ones, there was a kind of disappointment in how things were changing around him: he either felt too involved or too little involved, either victim or spectator, but never protagonist. His blush deepened at the thought of how vain he had grown, so he turned toward the cupboard.

“You could have told me what you planned for Starecross.”

It had been very humiliating to find himself among all the other magicians and find that he had no more inkling on what was to come and on Childermass’s plans than the thirteen-year-old butcher boy who had discovered that the severed heads in the shop sang to him (he was there more to understand how to stop the _thing_ from happening, since it was proving distressing for his master to the point that the boy feared to lose his position and all the money his family had paid for the apprenticeship). Childermass had skilfully steered the crowd toward the reestablishment of the Learned Society of York Magicians, listened to the butcher boy’s complaint and promised him that they would find a solution, taken engagements (one invitation was Miss Redruth’s, who seemed to have formed the idea that Childermass served as John Uskglass’s steward), and proceeded to claim Starecross for the greater good of the Society and the study of the King’s Book.   

“Now you’ll say that you tried to warn me about your intentions and I did not want to listen.”

“No, I will not say that. I kept it from you because I feared you would refuse to support my plans on the ground that they were mine, so I kept you in the dark until the very last.”

Segundus laughed bitterly at Childermass’s honesty. _How brutal he is_.  

“Is there anything you do without second motives, Childermass?”

He had spoken, despite all, in lightness. He felt very tired and disappointed with himself, and he was also thinking that Vinculus’s conduct needed a firm hand but also an attempt to redeem his character. He was therefore surprised, and slightly alarmed, at the urgency of Childermass’s voice.

“Mr Segundus.”

Upon turning at the call, Segundus had only a moment to wonder what new disaster was on its way - Vinculus? Faeries? - before realising that he was being kissed.

Childermass’s right hand was at Segundus’s waist, gently clasped over his old waistcoat; as for his other hand, Childermass had brought it to Segundus’s shoulder and was brushing the folds of his neckcloth, fingertips ghosting over Segundus’s jawline. Neither hand was there to restrain or force; to _tempt_ , yes, to show Segundus how to tilt us head up so that his mouth would naturally open under the pressure of Childermass’s.  

The kiss itself was tender, but in an intent, focused way that stirred Segundus no less than if Childermass had been passionately devouring his mouth. Eyes closed, he gave a small moan when Childermass keenly traced his lips with his tongue and immediately Childermass stole that breath, so that the sound was muffled in the kiss and Segundus shuddered in pleasure and fear.

With a slowness which seemed to owe to reluctance rather than artfulness, Childermass eventually drew back from the kiss - but only enough for them to be eye to eye, Segundus blinking and trying to put the other man into focus. Childermass sighed and pressed their noses together, then tilted his head and murmured in his deepest accent:

“Ain’t answer enough for you sir?”

Segundus would have gladly replied - in a very biting way, no doubt - as soon as he could remember what the question had been in the first place; but he was greatly distraught at the discovery that at some point he had thrown his arms around Childermass’s waist and his hands were now firmly placed on the man’s shoulder blades. This, Segundus would later tell himself, was the only reason why Childermass was allowed to resume their kiss, this time with an increased ardour which drove Segundus’s back against the cupboard.

The empty cup of tea that he had put on the counter rattled when they bumped against it. Segundus wished to check the state of cup and saucer, since they were part of a service he felt quite fond of, but when he tried to turn his head Childermass huffed some barely unintelligible and altogether preposterous reassurance about the sturdiness of fine porcelain (Segundus was not sure that there was no double entendre there). Then Childermass’s hands gently cupped his face and all thoughts about the value of a good tea service were lost in the sheer heat of the magician’s dark gaze.

The kiss deepened, that is to say that it became more than kissing now that their bodies were flush and Segundus could _feel_ the warm firmness of Childermass’s limbs - his nervous, lanky frame which did not seem made for this, for melting with another body, and yet could reveal strength and softness in the right measure. Segundus could not help running his hands up and down Childermass’s back, a touch which appeared to please the other man, since he quivered and leant into it like a cat being stroked.

And as if Childermass had been a cat returning from his morning meanderings, he smelt of fresh grass and earth, and Segundus would have liked to curl around Childermass and nibble at him, chasing the flavour on his skin - lazy, white desires that were like sparks from the fire building within the kiss.

Childermass moved his mouth to the side, but Segundus turned his head, frowning blindly at being denied all of a sudden. So he was given another kiss, but after that Childermass brought his lips to Segundus’s jaw and made him feel his teeth, then his tongue, leaning in while his long fingers pulled at the cloth around Segundus’s neck.

It was at this point that Segundus’s astonishment at Childermass’s impudence (a rather _prolonged_ state of surprise) had been on the verge of being dispelled. In other words Segundus would later be very keen on explaining to an imaginary third party that he had meant to shove the other man away and demand amends for the kissing - _unasked for!_ Segundus would cry in his mind, which only confirmed how disobliging Childermass’s nature was.

It was ill-luck that Segundus was robbed of the chance to do anything of the sort, otherwise he would have surely put an end to it. And how annoyed he was at the thought that Childermass might think that they would have taken things farther, had not Tom Levy entered the kitchen!

They heard his steps - well, Childermass did at least - and a moment later Levy called.

“Mr Segundus!”

With the dexterity of men accustomed to disguise their desires from others, Childermass and Segundus quickly recovered. When Tom Levy came in, the former was at the table reading from a book, while the latter was removing the traces of their breakfast. A detail which surprised Tom and let him wonder if Childermass and Mr Segundus were not on better terms than they had all thought; actually, while Segundus often broke his fast with Strange’s pupils, Childermass was usually nowhere to be seen until they started their daily research and magical experiments.  

“I knew I’d found you here, Mr Segundus.”

“Mr Levy,” Segundus greeted him, turning around with a vague, wavering smile. He did his best to avoid Childermass’s eyes, but he felt it nonetheless. Looking straight at Tom he repeated: “You _knew_?”

“You always hide in the kitchen when things take a turn for the worse.”

Childermass’s voice came as a shock, so smooth and collected as it was after - _despite_ \- their kissing. And yet, when he looked at him, Childermass’s gaze was only half mocking. The other half was a combination of satisfaction and surprise, as if he had got exactly what he wanted and yet had received _more_ than what he had bargained for, and was now compelled to observe Segundus in badly disguised fascination.

It made Segundus’s heart beat faster. But, when he realised what Childermass had just said, Segundus could not help splutter in indignation: _does everyone in this house spy on me and dissertate on my habits?_

“ _You_...” he began, but at the corner of his eye he saw Tom Levy looking at him in amazement, so he cleared his throat. “Please, Mr Levy, what happened?”

“A letter, Mr Segundus. For you and Mr Childermass.”

Segundus could not help stealing a glance at Childermass and he noticed that he had become attentive, sign that he had no idea of what Tom was talking about either.

“From whom?”

“From Miss Flora Greysteel.”

 

*

_December 24 th, 1809_

 

He always felt slightly intoxicated around Jonathan Strange.

It partly owed to the fact that the wine served at the Stranges’ table was always superb - Mrs Strange had told him that Jonathan had flirted with the idea of making a wine merchant of himself before he discovered his future as a magician, and for some time he had been very keen on tasting as many wine varieties as possible in the hope of developing a considerable and valuable knowledge in the field.  

“At least that’s what he told me when I confronted him,” Arabella had added, flashing Segundus a genial smile which suggested that she had only half-believed her husband’s arguments at the time.

Segundus, as usual when someone else pointed Jonathan’s flaws out to him, had blushed. Then he had stammered something about the advantage of discerning good wines from bad ones when entertaining in London, thus redirecting the attention of his hostess to the ongoing party.

“Oh, they’re not here for the wine or the Christmas wreaths!” she had replied, matter-of-factly. “They are here for Jonathan and his magic.”

That was another reason for Segundus to feel so inebriated. After all, he would not have been in London at such a time of the year but for the Stranges’ invitation to join them for the Christmas celebrations in their new house in Soho-square. The solicitation had not come to save Segundus from spending Christmas alone - he would have been among friends at the Honeyfoot’s as the previous year and the year before that - but nothing could compare with the delight of Strange’s company.

A change had come over him since Segundus had seen him last time at the end of August. As it may be expected from a boy turning into a pupil, Jonathan had lost some of his inordinate ways, while his interest in the field had sharpened and focused. Whatever doubts there had been about Mr Norrell’s willingness to take a pupil, it was clear that it was doing Strange a great deal of good to work with such a precise, demanding teacher.

Strange might complain about the unexciting readings he suffered through at the hand of Norrell (oh, but what Segundus would have given to be burdened with even the most boring of Norrell’s books of magic!), and about the limitations, the lectures, even the prejudices of the other magician. Yet Strange was already more educated than he had been a few months before, his understanding of magic had improved, and his mood did not seem severely undermined by his grievances against his teacher.

Even Arabella, who had confessed to Segundus that she had been unable to grow _truly_ fond of Mr Norrell despite the fact that the two households were on the best of terms, had to admit that Mr Norrell had a beneficial influence upon her husband and that his solid, no-nonsense teaching had answered to many of her fears about the profession of magician.

And yet Jonathan Strange was as overwhelming as ever. His vanity had not been entirely cured by his frequentation of Mr Norrell and he still liked to employ magic to charm his guests, especially - as he had admitted in his most candid way - at Christmas.

It was not surprising if the rest of Mr Honeyfoot’s family was already enamoured with him: Segundus, who had been a great favourite of Mrs Honeyfoot and her daughters (notably Sophie, the youngest of the three, who could neither play or sing but was far more thoughtful and solemn), could tell that Strange was rapidly replacing him in their hearts. The blow to Segundus’s pride was not very serious, since he had never entertained any plans about the young ladies - apart from his resolution to gently curb any more pronounced attachment on the girls’ part - and in consideration of the fact that he much sympathised with their sighs.

Besides, Segundus was glad that the Honeyfoots had received an invitation as well, for he would have not liked to choose a new friend over his old friends. The Honeyfoots had decided to take this chance to visit Mrs Honeyfoot’s old, bedridden uncle in London, in whose house they were currently staying - though they had felt entitled to leave him on Christmas Eve on the ground that the man hated parties and celebrations - while Segundus was given a room in Soho-square. It felt bizarre, since the only other guest there was Mrs Strange’s brother, Rev. Henry Woodhope - a discreet but slightly inconstant kind of fellow in Segundus’s opinion.

Segundus had met him at the Shadow House, but scarcely seen him later on at Ashfair. He knew from Arabella that Woodhope and Strange had been childhood friends and that the former had frequently been concerned with the latter’s courtship of his sister, but in the end he had not denied his blessing and actually celebrated their marriage. Yet Segundus found Woodhope cold-mannered toward Strange from time to time; he alternated between great friendliness and confidence to moments when his countenance seemed to darken at the very mention of Strange’s progress. The fact that Strange teased him about the clergy’s narrow views on magic did not help.

And with all the magic being _done_ in the house!

Again, Segundus felt exhilarated by it. The candles on the Christmas tree (slightly disproportioned, since the house in Soho-square was not overly large and the treetop grazed the ceiling) had been lit by magic, so that their flame was turquoise-turning-green and burnt with a faint odour of bluebells - though Segundus shied away from asking if others could smell it or it was the very fragrance of Strange’s magic tickling his nose. At dinner Strange had entertained his guests with a sample of Mr Norrell’s magic against the French, creating a small fleet of miniature ships with the water he had magically extracted - with an overabundance of pointless dramatic gestures, in his wife’s opinion - from the silver pitchers on the table. The ships floated among the admiring guests, dripping water on the floor and having their sails ripped off when they steered too close to the wreath placed over the fireplace - a couple of ships thus precipitated into the flames, disappearing in vapours. Strange also tried to make tiny sailors out of the jelly which was being served, in order to provide a crew for his watery ships, but they all fell through the layers of water and perished on the tablecloth in shapeless purple bits.

All these little discomforts for the household Mrs Strange tolerated in good humour, while her brother had observed the act with superciliousness; but the other guests - Segundus, the Honeyfoots, some new friends from the War Cabinet with their wives - clapped their hands and laughed joyously. Segundus, whose head felt lighter and lighter with each new spell, suspected that Mr Norrell would have shared Woodhope’s distaste in the games of the evening. He felt sure of it when he saw how Jonathan restrained himself after Mr Norrell’s arrival.

Still, Strange was playful enough even in Mr Norrell’s presence and more than eager to talk of magic, while Segundus was simply happy to oblige him. They eventually found themselves sitting close while one of the gentlemen from the War Cabinet played the piano and Arabella and the gentleman’s wife sang _Deck the halls_ in their lovely but slightly out-of-tune voices. Mr Honeyfoot could be heard humming random notes in the background, while Miss Honeyfoot and Miss Jane seemed impatient to take their turn at the piano and thus flaunt some of their accomplishments.  

“You see, Norrell tried with Buonaparte, but it did not quite work out as we imagined. Mr Canning and I had words on the subject...” Jonathan threw a quick look around them: as soon as he spotted Norrell on the other side of the room and far enough not to hear him over the singing, he proceeded: “...the point is that Norrell lacks imagination. I mean, of the kind you need to create nightmares capable of haunting that devil of a French. Canning talked about asking Mrs Radcliffe to write some story we could employ...I think Arabella would have liked the idea, my wife has become quite fond of reading of late: she says that since I have my nose in books most of the time, she may very well return the favour and read all the novels which are the rage of the day. Have you read anything of Mrs Radcliffe?”

“I’m afraid I did not, but the Misses Honeyfoot have shared with me their opinions about her books.”

“Well, I didn’t read anything of hers either and to tell you the truth I do not find novels enjoyable. Fables, yes, they have more than an ounce of the old traditions and the old magic about them. Novels? None can compare with magic.”

“One may say that novels are all the magic left in England nowadays,” Segundus suggested with a soft smile. Jonathan frowned in that way of his, which was being surprised at being interrupted, then trying to cope with another’s thoughts rather than his own, and finally seeing what could be interesting about it.

When he smiled at Segundus it was a pleasant sight to behold.

“Must I suppose that you may turn into a novelist, Mr Segundus?”

“Oh no, I don’t think I could! Listening to the Misses Honeyfoot praising Mrs Radcliff’s imagination has convinced me that I would not have a tenth of her fantasy to support my efforts. Only...I would write on the history of magic, if I had all the resources to write a reliable account. For instance, I have been thinking about telling the story of Miss Absalom,” he confessed, feeling his cheeks colour a little - indeed, the idea of writing on Miss Absalom was also an oblique tribute to his first meeting with Strange.

“You should rather write _my_ story then, since you can observe first-hand what my life is,” Jonathan replied, straightening himself in the armchair as if he was posing for a portrait. Then he chuckled at his own vanity. “In truth I don’t know what you could write about me, my friend. Sometimes I think Arabella was right when she doubted my ability to ever achieve...” he shook his head, a sight with filled Segundus with the desire of comforting him. But the mood was fleeting or at least Strange made an effort to look merry again. He watched his guests and especially his wife, while he spoke. “I am a lucky man, Mr Segundus: I haven’t spent such a wonderful Christmas Eve since the time when I lived with my cousins in Edinburgh.”

Segundus could readily believe it. Strange’s moods might appear whimsical and frivolous, yet his levity was part of his manners rather than of his character: something he could don at any moment, and shrug off as easily. Segundus was confident that Jonathan Strange felt as deeply as the next man, which did not make him over-delicate, but neither did it make him uncaring. He could be vain and cheeky, never cruel; he was fair to his enemies, loyal to his friends, loving to his wife.

Yet Strange had so much to achieve, so much to imagine, and if he could just unspool magic from his thoughts, what marvels he could have shown to England and the world!

Mr Norrell’s magic always felt comfortable and perfectly reasonable - once you started reasoning in magical terms, that is - but there was vigour and abandonment in Strange’s, as if magic was not a force he was trying to harness in any way, but something which echoed in his bones and his muscles, shining through his pupils, running with his blood.

And the more Strange did his magic, the more Segundus grew aware of the other man’s body, as if magic was peeling away layer after layer of manners and thoughts, a nakedness Segundus could not see but _feel_. The effort of concealing what such magic felt to him was exhausting, yet he could not stay away.

“We are all very lucky to have received your invitation.”

He could see that Jonathan was pleased at his words, but he was even more delighted when he encouraged him to tell him more about the nightmares for Buonaparte.

“Ah, that’s the point! We decided to bother him no longer. The Emperor of Russia offered a far more interesting subject for nightmares: we _know_ \- and when I say that we know I mean that our crown has friends at the court of the tsar - that he is a suspicious man, prone to mysticism and frights, unhappy childhood and so on, very fretful and thus likely to be influenced by his own dreams. Indeed, I think all Russians are like him: haunted by what they see in their sleep, growing monsters and beasts into their heads...so I sent him visions which could capture his feverish imagination.”

“Then, after all it is you who turned novelist,” Segundus pointed out, smiling.

“Am I? I am afraid you are right, for I sent Alexander seven dreams for seven consecutive nights, where he would be taking supper with Napoleon Buonaparte - a venison soup, you see, I miss the one we would have at Ashfair, here in London the meat is not as good... - and Napoleon would then cry ‘My hunger cannot be satisfied by vegetables!’, which I assure you sounds far more sinister in French. Do not laugh at me, my dear Segundus!” Jonathan begged him, but then they laughed silently together, leaning from their chair as if they would rather share their mirth with no one else - or at least this was how Segundus felt about it. “Then Napoleon turns into a she-wolf. Canning and Norrell did not agree with this detail, but I felt it was important. You see, after the she-wolf eats Alexander’s cat, dog, horse, Turkish mistress, she gorges himself on his friends and relations, growing as big and large as the Kremlin - they showed me drawings of that, so that it would look good enough in Alexander’s nightmare - and she is this heavy thing, with her teats swaying and her fur matted with blood, set on devouring Moscow. A she-wolf is more frightening than a male beast, and the idea of that devil of a French being able to change his sex together with his shape...”

Segundus nodded, his mouth dry. Though the account of the spell was not enough to unleash any more magic in the room, it was Jonathan’s delight in it that preyed upon Segundus’s heart, the way he had grown excited at the idea of what he was achieving with his magic and how this excitement warmed him toward his fellow human beings, starting with Segundus himself. Segundus suspected that Jonathan - as long as he was encouraged to talk magic - would be as friendly with anyone in the room, with few exceptions, and yet he could not help wondering how it would feel to have Strange’s magic seeping in one’s dreams, as it had happened at the Shadow House too many months before.

“I do not think there’s anything dishonourable in sending a man a dream _if_ the dream tells him what we already know for certain - for Buonaparte is going to betray Alexander in the end. I told my wife the very same.”

Segundus made to agree - he was not really thinking of Alexander now, yet agreeing felt pleasant - but he was prevented by Miss Honeyfoot and Jane Honeyfoot, who required Mr Strange’s attention for the next carol. Smiling apologetically at Segundus, but looking keen on pleasing the girls’ vanity, Strange left his chair. His wife took his place by Segundus.

“He has been crowing and preening,” she said, taking a swift look at Segundus. “I can see it on your face, that he has been feeding you stories of his magic. I hope it is not so very bad to listen to him when he’s in such a mood: he does not see that one could grow annoyed with his tales.”

“Annoyed? Oh, no, pray: why should I?”

“You may want to tell your own tales rather than listening to his the whole time.”

“Is there any tale _you_ would rather tell him, Mrs Strange?” Segundus asked, piqued.

Yet he had really seen through her words and she hung her head in as if in self-reproach.

“There is...there is a woman I would like to befriend,” Arabella said after a moment of silence. “I met her only very recently, so I probably should not talk about her as if I knew her story, but I feel that she is very lonely and that she needs a friend. I also happen to like her, though she says the most strange things.”

“Stranger than your husband’s, madam?” Segundus asked, this time offering a quiet smile.

“Oh, maybe not!” Arabella sighed.

She wore a little crown of paper leaves in her hair, a cheap ornament which looked far more precious than silver or gems upon her pretty head. Though fairer and more fashionable ladies were at the party, Segundus favoured Mrs Strange above every other woman in the room: the look of sincere pity in her eyes, while she talked about her new friend, would have won anyone.

“Do you think that your husband may do something... _magically_ , I mean?” Segundus asked, after listening to Arabella’s account of the lady’s changeable moods.

“I don’t know. I am afraid that she is not fond of magicians. Besides, I have never heard Jonathan talk of any magic to lift one’s mood or restore happiness. Money yes, fame too, love maybe, but happiness?”

“One would say that one of the three, or the three together, would ensure happiness to many, madam.”

“You see, I think she has all three and still she’s unhappy.”

“So you think your husband may not be able to help her and that she would not like to confide in him either, but you want him to...I apologise, Mrs Strange, I have not understood what you would like him to do.”

“Neither do I, only I feel that it would be important that Jonathan took some interest in her case. Would you meet her, if she and her husband agreed?”

“Mrs Strange,” Segundus gasped, taken by surprise. He had not foreseen her request and now that he heard her talking about the husband’s permission and the lady’s opinion, and still he did not know the name of the woman, he felt that it would be unwise to meddle when Jonathan himself clearly was not involved. “I am not sure I can offer you my assistance this time, I am neither a doctor nor a magician...”

“But you are a kind man, Mr Segundus, and she may more eagerly offer you her trust. For I have tried to understand what worries her at times, but she leaves my questions unanswered or she comes up with the most peculiar explanations. I think she is what you men would call an _original_ woman,” Arabella declared as if to challenge Segundus to use such a description in contempt, as many men would do.

But if the lady was _different_ , then Segundus felt as different as anyone. Still, he feared that it would have to be done behind Strange’s back, even if Jonathan had probably dismissed the subject in the first place when Arabella had tried to talk to him.

“I must thank you for your opinion of me, Mrs Strange, but I do not know how I can assist you.”

“Leave that to me! I only think that she would like your way of talking and she craves distractions from her mysterious sorrows. If you let me talk with her and her husband...tell me at least that you will think about it, Mr Segundus. You have been such a good friend since the very day we met you, will you forgive me for seeking your help again?”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Segundus assured her, for he could not deny her - no more than he would deny Jonathan Strange himself, for his sincere liking for Mrs Strange would always be mingled with guilt at his own hopeless hopes. “I will think about it.”

“Thank you, oh thank you! Now will you sing something with me at the piano?”

“I have no talent for music. It is like with magic: no matter how I love the idea of it, I will not strike the right note.”

She smiled in sympathy at his melancholic remark, but - as her husband before her - she was begged to join the others around the piano rather than roast herself by the fire. Feeling restless, Segundus stood, then sat again in the chair, and in the end he was very grateful to Mr Honeyfoot for having noticed that he had been left to himself and coming to his rescue with some proposals about how better they could spend their remaining time in London and which amusements would suit them best.

Ungrateful creature as he was, Segundus kept thinking about Jonathan Strange and his magic, and Jonathan Strange and his wife, growing vaguely dejected. More bizarre still was the fact that while he mulled and brooded, his ears caught some of Honeyfoot’s words but his gaze fell elsewhere. At some point he excused himself, telling Mr Honeyfoot that he needed something from his room and he would come back in a moment. He rose from his chair and hurried away from the songs and the bluish glow of the candles.

Truth was that if he had been asked, Segundus would have said that he had not been paying any attention to Childermass’s doings so far; yet he knew the very instant Childermass left the room.

 

It was well-known that Norrell did not enjoy large gatherings or parties, to the point that Strange had expressed the opinion that he would not come at all, despite the fact that it would look peculiar if the teacher would desert his pupil’s house on Christmas Eve, when he had no other previous engagement. In the end Norrell had sent word that he would not come for dinner but join them after it.

Childermass was with him, a fact that did not seem to surprise any of the Londoners. Apparently, customs did not apply to Childermass and he was allowed to join the gentlemen and the ladies. And if he was not exactly treated as a guest, he was not looked upon as a servant either, something which did not surprise Segundus in the least. He had heard Strange introduce him to some of his guests as _Mr Norrell’s man of business_ , which was a description Segundus found particularly apt, since it did not really define the range of Childermass’s authority and duties in Norrell’s household, let alone the kind of business he took care of in Mr Norrell’s behalf. And in such ambiguity lay Childermass’s freedom to join the party.

It was the first time Segundus had met Mr Norrell and Childermass since his arrival in London. He suspected that Mr Norrell had not been particularly keen on renewing their acquaintance, and Strange could not impose his own guests upon the house in Hanover-square. At the Stranges’ Norrell, Segundus, and Honeyfoot had greeted each other, small-talked about their first meeting almost two years before (a subject which was mostly left to Honeyfoot), briefly commented on the decorations Mrs Strange had tastefully arranged (Segundus’s main topic of conversation with Norrell), then found that others claimed their attention.

Indeed it was a pointless reunion, which left Segundus aware that his dislike of Mr Norrell had not faded over time, and that he still held him responsible for his disappointment in the disbandment of the Learned Society of York and, partially at least, for Childermass’s desertion.

_Oh my,_ he reproached himself, as soon as he realised that he had chosen such a ridiculous word to describe the man’s preference not to concern himself with Mr John Segundus. Childermass had had a right to such a choice and Segundus had come to respect it. He had never written except for that letter Mrs Strange had so begged him to pen, but since it had been for a completely unselfish reason it could not be held against Segundus if he had broken their silence just once. Not that Childermass had ever replied with more than the briefest note, to reassure Segundus that Mr Strange would be made welcome at Hanover-square (but then he had also written that those were Norrell’s words, once again hiding behind his master). It had been the sort of letter which does not call for an answer, therefore Segundus had not written back.

Segundus had greeted Childermass as well, then verily lost sight of him. Or so he had thought. Now, while he walked down the corridor, he found himself reviewing what he had seen of Childermass over the evening, which in the end amounted to more than Segundus would have believed it possible.

Childermass had always taken care to keep his distance from the rest of the company, as if he was aware that there were still limits as to his participation to the party. For instance, he spoke to the gentlemen, but did not bother the ladies; he accepted tea but not the sherry; he offered his season’s greetings but refrained from the general merriment. Still, no matter where Childermass was in the room, or where Norrell, it was as if an invisible thread joined them; so evident it was that Segundus marvelled at the fact that no one remarked upon it or seemed to notice - no one except him, who saw the way Childermass acted around his master.

And that had come as a shock to Segundus.

Never before had Segundus had the chance to have Mr Norrell and Childermass in the same room, and neither his - _now-ended_ , he reminded to himself - correspondence with Childermass nor Strange’s account of the household in Hanover-square had prepared him to bear witness.

There seemed to be no end to Childermass’s foreknowledge of Mr Norrell’s wishes: Childermass would invariably appear at his side before Norrell could do as much as to turn his head to look for him. A tilt of the head would suffice if they were on opposite sides of the room, and neither of them seemed to need more than a nod or a look to carry on whatever private conversation they were having. But once they were close, Childermass would lean over Mr Norrell’s shoulder and whisper in his master’s ear, betraying a habit of physical proximity and intellectual confidence that neither man seemed otherwise inclined to offer freely. Mr Norrell might make a face or protest if he did not like what he was being told, yet he would not deny himself to Childermass; and Childermass would not deny himself to Norrell, appearing when required, stepping back when dismissed, and yet managing to be always at hand, never out of hearing and acting.

There was thoughtfulness in Childermass’s actions for his master, softness in his gaze when he looked at Mr Norrell from the other end of the room, and a way of twisting his mouth as if to hide a smile, so that only his dark eyes would brighten in the enjoyment of their confidence.

It made Segundus sick to think of it, as if he had caught Childermass -

“Are you spying on me, Mr Segundus?”

He almost fainted in fright when he heard Childermass’s voice. He had stopped just outside the door of the library, certain that Childermass must be in there but completely confused about what he was supposed to do with this piece of information. He was tempted to back away and pretend he had never left the party, but he felt that Childermass would know anyway, so he pushed the door and entered.

Childermass stood by the only desk in the room. He wore the same unsurprised, cool look he had cast upon Segundus when he had arrived in Soho-square in Mr Norrell’s wake, a couple of hours before.

“Do not fret,” Childermass said, as if he could hear the very beat of Segundus’s heart over the muffled sound of singing coming from the other side of the house. “I’m not going through Strange’s books.”

“I think he would show them to you and your master if you asked,” Segundus retorted, annoyed at how easily Childermass had guessed his thoughts and how contemptuously had dismissed them.

“Mr Norrell would not trust any information freely surrendered.”

“You said...”

“Peace, Mr Segundus. I am teasing you,” he said, _as if it was preferable and inconsequential!_ “I wished for a quiet corner to question the cards. Midnight is nigh sir, I suppose you may wish to return to your friends.”

“The cards?” Segundus inquired, obstinately ignoring Childermass’s suggestion that he would leave.

Childermass raised an eyebrow, but eventually beckoned Segundus closer.

“The tarots of Marseilles.”

They lay there on the desk, still unturned. They looked worn and bizarrely mismatched, one slightly larger than the next, the design on their backs slightly varied - Segundus had thought that the point of a deck of cards was that they should all look the same when turned, but Childermass was clearly unconcerned with such minor truths.

“Have you ever had your fortune read, Mr Segundus?”

“No.” Segundus bit his lower lip, then threw a sidelong glance at the other man. “Will you...?”

“No,” Childermass breathed after a moment. “I am not a fortune-teller and you may not like what they say. The cards never choose to please.”

Segundus stiffened. It was as if Childermass had been on the verge of saying something very different, then thought better of it; it made Segundus feel like he had done something wrong and thus kept the other man from speaking his mind. But he had no way of telling _what_ he had done to deserve such distrust.

“What makes you think I want to be _pleased_ by your cards? I am not afraid of the truth, if that is what you are suggesting. Only it never occurred to me that I should seek answers in there; I am afraid I prefer to question a man rather than look into cards.”

“I did not doubt it, Mr Segundus. Men lie, though; cards do not.”

“So you’d rather ask your cards than me.”

“I was unaware that we were talking about you, sir,” Childermass said with a soft smirk. Segundus felt his cheeks heat up and was grateful for the semi-darkness of the library, where only a couple of candles were burning. “Yet my cards told me that you’d come to London.”

“ _Oh_.”

“On the other hand it was your letter that told me you’d come to this house. It was implied in its tone. It was an interesting read, sir, that letter you had delivered to me: I have never known you to be so eloquent as when you wrote about Jonathan Strange.”

This time Segundus felt that no darkness would conceal the glow of his cheeks.

“A gentleman is called to exercise eloquence on the account of a friend he admires deeply.”

“You should be more guarded with your admiration, sir,” Childermass drawled, and it sounded so wrong that Segundus flinched. “I am not the only one with eyes, and even if Mr Strange basks in your esteem, others may find it unseemly in a gentleman.”

_How dare you_ , Segundus thought, feeling that he could not speak. He was so furious and humiliated at being so reprimanded that he could have struck Childermass here and there; well, maybe not really, because he could not bear the thought of touching the other man in any way.

“I am grateful for your advice, Mr Childermass.”

“Surely you are grateful.” He could feel the sneer in Childermass’s voice at his poor attempt at coldness. “And offended too.”

“It is not your place to speak of Mr Strange.”

“I see. You dislike to hear his name spoken by others.”

“I dislike to hear his name spoken by _the_ _likes of you_.”

There was a moment of silence and Segundus felt that Childermass might have done something awful to him at any moment; not hitting him, but using words that would have cut him and made him bleed. He half-closed his eyes, waiting for those words; but Childermass’s voice was very calm, almost wondering, when he spoke again.

“What are _the likes of me_ , Mr Segundus?”

Again, Segundus was reduced to silence. He heard Childermass move closer to him. He instinctively took a step back, but when he hit the bookshelves he was so spooked that he softly cried:

“You’re Mr Norrell’s servant!”

“Aye. Didn’t you know before?” Childermass asked with a gentleness that made Segundus shiver.

“No.”

“What’s got into you.”

It should have been a question, but somehow it was not.

Childermass was observing him, an unpleasant, cold feeling of being slowly and methodically dissected for the sake of Childermass’s knowledge, that knowledge that he would use to break Segundus without a second thought. That was what conversing with Childermass meant: giving him the tools to control you, and eventually to hurt you; he would store your words and your expressions in that brain of his, and all of it would be used against you sooner or later. The simplest wish on Mr Norrell’s part would provide the motive.

Segundus felt that he had never really understood how dangerous Childermass was. Now he saw it.

“Is there something that bothers you?”

“No.”

“You are nervous, something bothers you.”

Segundus could smell the candles burning, and hear the hot, melting wax dribbling into the candle holder. He could also hear the regular sound of Childermass’s breath and see him leaning against the bookshelves, only a step away, arms crossed with nonchalance. The point was that Segundus could have moved away at any moment, for Childermass was not trapping him; still, he felt cornered.

“Are you afraid?” Childermass asked.   

“Of what?”

“That I may kiss you. Don’t. I am not going to kiss you.”

For a moment Segundus thought that he had misheard. Childermass would not - no one would - speak of _kisses_ to another gentleman; not this way, this casual, cruel way of saying _kiss_ as if it was a word like any other, and not a sparkle which could kindle a fire in a man’s imagination.

And since it would not be quenched and Segundus could not bear to burn alone, he turned, pushed Childermass flat against the bookshelves, and put his mouth to his.

It was little more than pressing his lips against the other man, almost painful in his clumsiness, and it was immediately followed by a wave of panic since Childermass was doing nothing, perhaps not even breathing properly - but that was difficult to say because Segundus’s senses could hardly register anything apart from his own fear. Then the feeling of Childermass’s hands closing on his arms, a little above the elbows, cut through the haze. _I shall die of shame_ , Segundus thought, because Childermass would push him away and take a look at him, then nothing would remain but to hide somewhere, and it would be a very fine thing if the roads to Faerie were still open because Segundus would rather walk them than face Childermass ever again.

To preserve what little was left of his dignity, Segundus made to end the one-sided kiss. But a hand closed on his nape and kept him in place while Childermass deftly turned them both around and shoved him against the books. Then Childermass’s teeth were worrying his lips and urging him to open his mouth to the thrust of his tongue. The savagery of it made Segundus buck against Childermass, his hands flailing weakly at the man’s waist.

Suddenly, Childermass’s hands were wrapped around his wrists, a warm pressure just against Segundus’s quickened pulse, then changed their hold and intertwined their fingers. The kiss turned gentler, and for a few moments it was no more than Childermass softly kissing Segundus’s lips, over and over, his gaze as dark and unreadable as ever in the flickering, feeble light. Yet Childermass’s thumbs were drawing soothing, slow circles on Segundus’s knuckles. Even when the kiss deepened again, it felt no longer crushing.

Segundus felt the urge to touch Childermass: he wanted to feel all of his clothes, the necktie, his rough cheeks, his dark hair. But he was held tighter when he tried to move his hands, so he moaned in protest against Childermass’s mouth and could feel him smile right on his lips. It was a pleased smile, of the kind Segundus would have very much liked to see, and when Childermass took his breath Segundus said just as much in a dreamy tone.

“Can’t you be content with being kissed?” Childermass wondered amusedly.

Again, the word made Segundus’s thoughts bright with desire, so this time he was the one who resumed their kissing, tentatively nipping at Childermass’s lips. Childermass let him do as he wished, only offering his mouth and breathing a little faster, leaning in and brushing against Segundus like a suspicious cat that may still dash off at any moment.

They kept on for what it felt like the longest and yet the shortest time. Segundus could not believe that such a change in his perception of John Childermass (his mouth! His lips! The very smell of him! All of it extraordinary and marvellous!) could have happened except over the span of several centuries; still it felt like they had been kissing for a shamefully short time.

When Childermass straightened his head and took his mouth out of Segundus’s reach, Segundus could not help looking at him in amazement. Not only could Childermass _kiss_ \- which was a wonder by itself considering how unapproachable he looked and how preposterous that a man like him would indulge in such a delightful waste of time - but Segundus strongly suspected that their kiss had been quite good by any standard. Still, reproaching himself for being so inconsistent, Segundus felt also very inclined to improve their kissing through practice.

He therefore strained against Childermass’s hold, but Childermass made a noise that Segundus thought might be the kind of sound used with carriage horses (it did not feel very flattering to be reined in as a horse, but being kissed no longer was worse).

“Mr Norrell will worry about my wanderings,” Childermass said slowly, holding Segundus’s gaze as if he wanted to check that his words were understood.

Segundus understood even too well, to the point that he tried to get away from Childermass. Again he was treated to that sound of rebuke which was Childermass’s tongue clicking against his palate.

“Tell me how long you’ll be in London, sir,” Childermass demanded.

“Till the New Year.”

He could just guess the outline of Childermass’s lips in the candle-light and felt entitled to imagine that they were reddened and tender from their kissing, as his own felt at the moment. How dark that mouth would look against Childermass’s paleness! Unless his cheeks were now pink as well, and warm to the touch...

“Are you listening to me, sir?” Childermass grunted, his fingers now on Segundus’s chin. “You shall see me before you return North.”

“Oh,” Segundus sighed, very much distracted by the touch. He felt that Childermass’s thumb was almost brushing his mouth, but the impression was gone too soon. There was a swift movement, and Childermass was collecting his cards from the desk to store them in some hidden pocket of his overcoat.  

“I’ll take my leave now, Mr Segundus.”  

“I...yes, Mr Childermass. Merry Christmas,” Segundus whispered.

“Merry Christmas, sir,” Childermass replied, so solemnly that Segundus very much suspected the other man was laughing at him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] It would later be ascertained that the woman was the childless widow of a neighbour farmer, whom Vinculus had been courting in secrecy for the past weeks. He found it most extraordinary - and slightly irritating - that she made no claim on him, going as far as to ignore his jocular hints to marriage. It would fall to William Hadley-Bright to discover that the widow - whose name we do not wish to divulge - was in fact an aspiring magician: she had employed all her charms on Vinculus, rather than the other way around, to obtain a secure and private access to the Book.


	6. Debates on Magic

_York_

_July 14 th, 1808_

 

_Dear Mr Childermass,_

 

_I hope my letter finds you in perfect health (you will think it very impertinent of me, but I wonder if you ever experience cold or headache: I would say no, and I much admire your constitution)._

_Here the heat has become almost unbearable. I feel that most of us here in the North are not used to such weather. Nor can I remember ever having lived through such a hot summer when I was in the South, though I suppose that we tend to forget how we felt in the past, and we are always under the impression that we have never been so cold or so feverish before. I must confess that the idea is not mine, but Miss Honeyfoot’s, and it referred to the experience of love instead. You must think me a very dull and crude man for borrowing her reflections upon love to describe the hot weather! I am afraid this weather robs me of all higher thoughts._

_I should rather be grateful that I have no profession which compels me to leave the house when the light is most blinding and blistering. There is no day that passes without hearing the news of someone who has been taken sick from the heat, and I am sure that many more have fallen ill - all those workmen who cannot do any different than facing any weather, cold winters or fiery summers, and whose afflictions lay hidden and neglected._

_Again you will write that my letters are “_ full of pity for the whole of humanity, _” starting with myself I suppose you meant, and I must tell you sir that I was displeased with that line of yours. For I rather thought that your own writings revealed an uncommon preoccupation with society, its inner workings, and its flaws, which I believe is altogether different from Mr Norrell’s cultivation of that very particular and secluded society which is called_ beau monde. _I am therefore inclined to think that your words had expressed your own interest in a broader vision of what magicians could do for the sake of their fellow human beings._

_I beg you to tell me if I have misjudged you._

_I understand that my description of the mischief which put the household in such a commotion was very long, but I felt it would have been unfair to describe the terrible explosion without giving first a testimony of the girls’ good character. Then I could not help reporting my conversation with my landlady, which must have seemed very trivial to you ~~, and yet weighed upon my conscience for a long time for the light it threw for me on the trade between masters and servants~~_.[1]

_It is not easy sir to find topics which may be worth the attention of those living in London, where magic is being done by the renowned Mr Norrell, and all best circles are now open to him. And yet you were so very kind to tell me about the libraries and booksellers you have been visiting and the sort of characters you have been meeting - you sketch them quite beautifully with only a few words! - thus offering me an entertainment for which I am very grateful. But you know the booksellers in York better than me and my connections have not changed over more than one year. Besides, I cannot write on magic without thinking how it would apply to my life, and when I think about my life I see it crossing many other lives; so I think how magic would change this world of ours, starting with my neighbours and my acquaintances._

_You may think the scope of my vision very narrow compared to dealing with the friends and enemies of our Great Nation, and the grander purposes that I am sure Mr Norrell cultivates in London nowadays. At least you must acknowledge that it proves that I am a practical magician in thoughts and aspiration, sir, if not in reality, for I strive to find an application for magic in one and every occurrence._

_That must be why I end up filling my letters with such trifles, because there is a connection in my mind between the smallest things and magic - but how presumptuous you must think me, as I persevere in stating what magic should become in our age when I have never done it in my life!_

_Indeed, you named me “_ a man of ideas _” and still I do not know if it was meant as a compliment or not._

_Your servant,_

_John Segundus_

 

_*_

_Mr Segundus,_

_I am not bored by your accounts of the North._

_In fact I have a mind to beg you to tell me more of it **[2]**._

 

_*_

 

_York,_

_September 30 th, 1808_

 

_Dear Mr Childermass,_

 

_I hope my letter finds you well and that your travels across the country are leaving you some time to rest, though you always sound so tireless and unfaltering that I feel guilty regarding my frequent complaints about the smallest inconveniences or the weather (though you assured me before that you are not immune to colds as I thought)._

_Speaking of which, the days have grown rainy of late. I supposed it would be considered a blessing after such a long and hot summer, but I spoke to my landlady’s cousin, who owns a small farm near Hull, and he said that such heavy showers will do more in terms of ruining the soil than restoring it. He was very grim and rather disconsolate (I am afraid he was in town with the purpose of selling a piece of his land). I have never managed any land, either of my own or on others’ behalf, but it must be a very dire business, especially for those who can hardly bear a bad year and so can see their fortunes suddenly upturned._

_On the other hand, I think that life in the country would appeal to me and would agree with my studies. I would be sorry for leaving this house though, for Mrs Pleasance is a good woman and I am afraid that not many landladies would have put up for so long with my attempts at magic, though nowadays Mr Norrell’s increasing celebrity is influencing the public opinion on practical magic, dismantling some of those hideous prejudices that centuries of exclusively theoretical approaches have encouraged to deplorable lengths._

_Yet I suppose that most of the common people are still unaware of what great change is upon us. Mrs Pleasance herself had not grasped the enormity of Mr Norrell’s accomplishments until I explained them and read to her a few articles chosen from the ones you pointed out to me in your last letter (the ones on the hope that magic will be an instrument for those who serve our Nation, and how Mr Norrell has been welcomed into the very best circles in London)._

_I think Mrs Pleasance has not yet decided whether she should worry more or less about me in the light of such revelations. I see that she is much comforted by the realisation that practical magic is not so improper a pursuit and that a magician may turn out to be a most honourable and desirable sort of tenant. Yet she must fear that I will soon set the bread in her oven talking or encourage the maids to foolish dances in the woods._

_I mean neither, though I will admit that I wonder what the bread would say if given the chance and means to speak.  It would offer a most uncommon point of view, and I suspect that the points of view at our disposal are hardly ever enough, in terms of knowledge and understanding they may offer to a man of intellect._

_Speaking of which, I have recently come into possession of a book on magic._

_I promised to myself that I would make no mention of it to you, since it is hardly a rare volume and, as it was among the books of the Learned Society, I had already read it once before. But it is a very good book, of the kind I am pleased to see on my shelf, and I will make sure to read it many times (do you agree that a good book can be the object of many a pleasant reading losing none of its merits, but rather acquiring new ones as the reader’s understanding becomes more sophisticated?)._

_It is Hether-Gray’s_ Debates on Magic _, collecting the essays he wrote between 1745 and 1760. I know you read it because you quoted it in one of your letters, but at the time I could not remember the entire passage and I did not wish to bother you - though you have been very kind to transcribe some paragraphs from your own readings._

_The way the book came into my hands is quite curious. It was Mr Honeyfoot who presented it to me, on the grounds that he had found himself burdened with the book through an unfortunate request from a friend. This friend of his - not anyone of my acquaintance, otherwise I am sure Mr Honeyfoot would have told me his name - wrote to Mr Honeyfoot to beg him to purchase the book, which was on sale in Leeds._

_Mr Honeyfoot being bound to be in Leeds for other previous engagements and his friend unable to get there within a reasonable amount of time, and thus worried that the book would be sold, Mr Honeyfoot bought the book with the money his friend had sent with his letter. I was under the impression that Mr Honeyfoot was relieved that the request had come with the money to fulfil it. It might be that this man is more of an acquaintance, and indeed the following events confirm that he was not a very close friend._

_Mr Honeyfoot had only just returned from Leeds when another letter arrived, this one begging him to accept the sender’s apologies: some misunderstanding had led to the purchase of another copy of the same volume, and now the friend did not wish to be burdened with two copies. It was a pity that the man did not value the Leeds copy more, for I have discovered that it includes a small dedication in Hether-Gray’s own handwriting to one of his pupils, and the state of the book is most excellent. If I had any talent for drawing, I would send you a sketch of its cover and spine, for they are blue leather and golden design, and it is without doubt the most beautiful edition I have ever seen of Hether-Grey’s works._

_At this point, you see, Mr Honeyfoot was greatly embarrassed, for the friend told him that he could keep the book as a compensation for the pains Mr Honeyfoot had taken to oblige their friendship. Mr Honeyfoot refused and offered to send the book to London (I wonder if you may know the man, since I suppose that even in London the number of magicians sending for books across England must not be very large, and most of them must be already known to you and Mr Norrell)._

_The friend, again, wrote that he would not take the book and Mr Honeyfoot should accept the gift._

_You know that Mr Honeyfoot has been most scrupulous as to his agreement to renounce to magic. He could hardly bear the thought of a new book on the subject being introduced in his house and feared that it would represent a violation of the contract. Therefore he gave it to me._

_I was so surprised, and so strange and disagreeable did I find his friend’s behaviour (for surely how could he ignore that Mr Honeyfoot had renounced to magic and would be chagrined by the very possession of the book?) that I thought it was all a pretence of Mr Honeyfoot to present me with a gift. As I wrote before, Mr Honeyfoot would gladly help me with my scholarly endeavours, providing me with the means to advance in them, but I do not mean to earn from his friendship more than the natural pleasure of his esteem and his company. So I forbade him from such a thing._

_Besides, Mr Honeyfoot is the very embodiment of honesty in friendship, so I could not truly believe that he had planned such a convoluted story to give me the book. He was also quite ready to return it to his friend if I had not taken it, though he very warmly advised me to put an end to my remonstrance and accept the book._

_So I will now end my letter to you and get on with my new book before going to bed._

_Please sir, refresh your opinions on_ Debates on Magic _: I am very impatient to discuss it with you, now that I can refer more precisely to it._

 

_Your servant,_

_John Segundus_

_*_

_York_

_October 29 th, 1808_

 

_Dear Mr Childermass,_

 

_All Hallows’ Eve is nigh. Please forgive me such an abrupt opening, but I have spent great part of the last few days thinking about the words you used in your last letter, concerning the “magic which shall be heard over the noise of our time” and how you then proceeded to shew me that despite the long absence of magic from England, the old ways have not been completely forgotten._

_At first I was not sure that I could see your point, since it bothered me that you could say that a shepherd may be closer to magic that you and me; in other words that instinct and an ability to believe in the extraordinary might be better than the culture on magic we can find in books. I also wondered - oh, you will think it wicked of me! - what Mr Norrell would say of such a statement of yours (please do not share it with him, I am afraid he would dismiss you from his service and then where would I write to you?)._

_Then I reread your letter and saw that your understanding was, again, superior to mine._

_It is not, I see, that all the tales on All Hallows’ Eve are to be considered truth, or even part of the truth. But they belong to the magic mind and they speak to us of another age, when magic did play a part in the history of our people. So they are documents, proofs, traces of the words and deeds that were full of power once._

_Still if we spoke such a language we would not make ourselves magicians, no more than speaking Latin make us Romans. We can wear those garments and still be without magic._

_This is, I think, what you meant._

_But I also thought that many people do not perceive these things - these traditions - as something very different or peculiar compared to the other things in their lives; special, yes, and yet part of the routine of their years, something their fathers did and spoke, and something their sons will do and speak. And so they are happy with what they have got and they will think of it as real magic._

_I think, you see, that some people are perfectly unaware that magic left England._

_I believe we have more of such people here in the North than in London. I have always wondered how Northerners may have achieved this peculiar balance of practicality and capacity for reverie, which I have never found in the South. It is like they are trapped between the very earth and the sky, always looking at the clouds running over the moor, and still perfectly aware of their feet in the mud._

_So yes, there must be deep and marvellous ways through which magic still lives in the North. Indeed, I am not surprised that the first magician in centuries appeared in the North at last. But I am rambling. What I meant to write to you is that I have resolved to no longer dismiss the popular misconceptions on magic as - indeed - purely misconceptions. I do not mean to say that true magic could be found there, but they may deserve more attention, and more respect, on my part._

_Therefore I am afraid that I have been a real nuisance to Mrs Pleasance, for I have often enquired after all the preparations of the household for All Hallows’ Eve. She is a very devoted woman, you see, and she would be horrified at the thought that she is encouraging something un-Christian (greater her merit for accepting me, a would-be magician, in her house). Yet she has already given me a carved turnip to put on my window sill. It is very hideous, I think that mandrakes might have this very same look upon them; again, I regret that I do not possess any drawing skill, it would amuse you to see what perfect little monster has been appointed to protect me from the evil spirits on such a night._

_At the same time, when I questioned her on the reason of the carved lanterns and why she is so set on baking herself the cakes she is going to distribute among her friends and acquaintances on the first of the month, she was put in a flutter._

_“That is the way things happen on All Hallows’ Eve, Mr Segundus,” she told me reproachfully._

_She clearly thought impertinent of me to question something so common and generally accepted as the preparations for All Hallows’ Eve, as if I had challenged the way she manages the entire household. I also tried to talk with the maidservants, but they had questions in return for me, concerning the power which are bestowed upon magicians on All Hallows’ Eve. Apparently, they expect me to be especially powerful this year (I cannot help smiling at the idea), because they had happened to hear that Mr Norrell’s name has appeared in the newspapers twice only this last month, so they think that we magicians must be all be on the rise and they cannot think of a better night to display our enchantments. I am not sure if they were entirely serious - it is difficult to understand them over their giggling and blushing; but again there is an widespread opinion in favour of the connection between certain times of the year and magic._

_I wonder if I should try again; I mean, resume my experiments._

_It would look very silly if I had to do so while there’s a candle burning inside a carved turnip on my window, wouldn’t it? I would feel those little fiery eyes on me all the time._

 

_Your servant,_

_John Segundus_

_p.s. I do hope that you are well and I wonder if Mr Norrell does not mean to enjoy the hunting season **[3]**._

 

_*_

 

_York,_

_November 9 th, 1808_

 

_Dear Mr Childermass,_

 

_I wish you had not asked about it. Indeed it was my fault, I should have expected you to guess all of it, despite my protestation about how ridiculous it would look._

_Only please, do not think that I believed something would be different only because it was All Hallows’ Eve, I am not that naive - but then, I should not be so naive to think that reasoning about magic and feeling that I have acquired a greater understanding of it would make any difference when trying to_ practice _magic instead of talking about it._

_The result was, again, failure._

_I should not feel so disappointed considering how many times I have gone through it, yet I find that my ability to be disappointed has not been drained yet. I suspect that this is more upsetting that failure itself - the fact, I mean, that I did not learn from my past experiences. My late father would be very dissatisfied with me if he knew, considering how he tried to impress upon me, as a child, the importance of making oneself successful and, if that would not be achieved, at least invulnerable to discouragement. I do not doubt the importance and value of such a lesson,_ but _I have never managed to put it into practice: I am afraid I will always be up for disappointment._

 _Please do not infer that I mean to deny that magic must be learnt by trial and error. You were very kind to suggest that Mr Norrell goes through the very same and not all his efforts are carried out with satisfying results. Yet I beg to differ on this point: the fact that he_ does _perform magic, though among many failings, makes all the difference between Mr Norrell and me. He has proof - we all have proof, don’t we? - of his being a practical magician._

_I have only proof of what I am not._

_And now that I must have convinced you of my right to being displeased with myself, I would like to bring Hether-Gray’s eighth debate to your attention. I admired, at first, how lucid and methodical his prose is, even when he faces a very delicate subject: private correspondences must always be so and I am not sure that the historians’ reasons are enough to make me feel less uneasy about the fact that we are prying in the private world of other people, people who can no longer defend themselves (unless Mr Norrell will discover how to summon them for the very purpose of hearing their opinions on our blunders)._

_As I have written above, there was much admiration on my part for Hether-Gray’s investigation, but I am still unsure about what I should do with it. I must confess that his arguments are most convincing and I agree with their conclusion that the recipient of Dr Pale’s letters must be unquestionably identified with the author of_ Eighteen Wonders to Be Found in the House of Albion _(which is, incidentally, the first book I read from the Learned Society’s library when I joined in)._

_I am also acquainted with most of the replies Hether-Gray’s theory provoked, even their more recent developments (for instance, have you read that a man from Devonshire claims to have found a register including proof of Pevensey’s birth? I found his report very suspicious and I am inclined to believe that it is a case of forgery)._

_Now, if you promise me that you will not challenge me to a duel, no matter how our opinions may differ on the identity of Francis Pevensey **[4]** , I shall ask you to write me your thoughts about it. Please be aware that all my attempts at managing weapons have been very unfortunate and have revealed at an early age how incompetent I am with guns and swords (my late father being something of an authority on the subject and therefore the best judge I could hope for). I am not sure I have ever seen you carrying any weapon upon you, but then I would not be surprised if your set of skills included fencing and shooting._

_Your servant,_

_John Segundus_

_*_

_York,_

_November 17 th, 1808_

 

_Dear Mr Childermass,_

 

_I hope your journeying in the North has not taken too great a toll and that this letter of mine may find you in good health. As per your instructions, I will send it to the address in Newcastle you provided in your last card; I suppose I should not say as much, but I would have been glad if you had found time to stop in York._

_It was very wicked of you to accuse me of imagining you as a sort of highwayman._

_I am sure to have never written anything of the sort; I only suggested that you strike me as the kind of man who knows how to shoot and may not shame himself with a sword in his hand - both accomplishments any gentleman would be very glad to possess. And I can assure that I do_ not _depict you roaming woods and glens and ambushing travelling gentlemen and carriages. In fact, the only reason why I may have ever thought about highwaymen in relation to you must have been to comfort myself with the thought that you do not seem likely to fall their victim. I would rather say that you have never let me think of you as less than perfectly able to take care of yourself and face any kind of danger (again, you will mock my words and write something to the effect of reminding me how naive my perception of the world and its dangers is)._

_I am indulging your mockery, am I not? Each time I promise myself I will not take your words seriously, and yet I do quarrel with you (has it the same weight if it is on paper, I wonder?)._

_But now I am going to disagree with you on a more important point._

_You find the whole debacle surrounding the identity of Francis Pevensey unnecessary, since - either way - it does not contribute to any discovery on magic. This is true, I do not believe that the possibility of Pevensey being a woman would add anything to our knowledge, magic-wise; the very importance of the_ Eighteen Wonders _would not be changed by this fact, nor Pevensey being a man would lend more weight to the diagrams in the book._

_On this I agree with you and I am in fact very pleased to see that you do not belong to that group of magicians who would feel threatened by the idea of a woman being Dr Pale’s pupil. In truth I had never thought you could be among them, but it is good to know._

_I also think that you are not wrong in pointing out that our main concern must be with magic rather than with the magicians, or we should eventually judge their achievements by their flaws as human beings. Yet I am not sure that the men we are has nothing to do with the magicians we could make. I beg your pardon, but do you never wonder if Mr Norrell’s character will be in the way of his magician persona? I mean to suggest that a man’s moral qualities cannot be wholly separated by his magic._

_Therefore, although I agree that the problem of Pevensey’s identity is a minor one compared to the interpretation of his work, and the solution of the first would not offer the means to solve the latter, I do not believe that it is irrelevant. I do not feel, like you, that I am indifferent to Pevensey being a man or a woman. And yet I do not want Pevensey to be either a man or a woman._

_The point is that I think it is very important - indeed of the utmost importance, though you will find my words as melodramatic as ever - to say that Francis Pevensey could be either a man or a woman._

_It is not, you are right, a question of magic._

_It is - will you pardon me for such boldness sir? - more than magic._

_We need to think of Francis Pevensey as a woman, because that would mean that a woman can be a magician’s pupil and a magician herself, and no magician should be averse to teaching magic to another magician, woman or not. Recognising this possibility would mean putting an end to the ridiculous idea that a woman could not make a good - a great! - magician. I know women are often accused of not possessing the right amount of wit and sense to deal with magic, let alone the constancy to study it. I have heard the very same opinion being expressed over and over, talking of women and politics, women and property, women and magic. But my experience teaches me differently; my heart tells me differently._

_At the same time, we need to think of Pevensey as a man. Because that would mean that a man can write such letters to a man. In short, we should allow Francis Pevensey to be a woman and a magician, but also to be a man and love a man._

_That is why I care for the debate around Pevensey._

_Not for a solution (do you not often accuse me of being greedy for answers?), but for the possibilities._

 

_Your servant,_

_John Segundus_

 

_*_

_London_

_September 8 th, 1808_

 

_Dear Mr Honeyfoot,_

 

_You may be surprised to hear from me, for never before did I have the honour to write to you._

_Yet, as you may already be aware, I am entrusted with Mr Norrell’s book acquisition. It was in the performance of such duty that I came across the news that a certain copy of Hether-Gray’s_ Debates on Magic _is currently on sale in Leeds._

_I am afraid that the book will be sold before I will be able to leave London, so I thought that you may be so kind as to purchase it in my behalf. I believe that you told Mr Norrell about business which takes you to Leeds once a month or so, therefore I dare presume that you may grant me such favour in the name of our acquaintance. I would not appeal to you if Mr Norrell had not impressed upon me the idea of never paying any booksellers before seeing the book with my own eyes. In this case I feel that I could trust your own judgement on the matter._

_You will find the address of the seller, together with enough funds to acquire the book, enclosed in my letter. I beg you to let me know as soon as you have the book and I will make arrangements._

_Mr Norrell tells me to convey his best wishes to you and Mrs Honeyfoot._

_Your most grateful servant,_

_John Childermass_

 

_*_

_London_

_September 20 th, 1808_

 

_Dear Mr Honeyfoot,_

 

_Again, I am very sorry that I inconvenience you, but as I wrote before I no longer require the book. Mr Norrell has no use for the book, for a most rare copy of it has already taken its place in his London library._

_I understand that you may feel that the contract you signed does not agree with your possession, let alone use, of the book. Indeed such a feeling does you honour and I beg you to accept my apologies for putting you in such an embarrassing position._

_Yet I cannot help repeating my offer that you keep the book as a reparation._

_I will travel to York and take the book away if I must, but I dare suggest that we may both be put out of any further awkwardness if you were to present the book to your friend Mr John Segundus, who is under no obligation to reject it and has the means to appreciate such a gift._

_If this will be the case, I must ask you not to mention this deplorable accident to anyone, not even Mr Segundus, for I would incur Mr Norrell’s keenest displeasure if he knew the details of this unfortunate transaction and thus notice that I erroneously made arrangements for two copies of the same book to be purchased almost at the same time._

_Your most grateful servant,_

_John Childermass_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] As the presence of this crossed-out sentence must have already suggested to our readers, this is not the letter which John Childermass received, but the draft (maybe one of many) that John Segundus decided to rewrite from the start once he noticed that there was at least a sentence he did not wish to include. We may infer that other changes were made before the letter was sent and that the unusual passionate address was thus watered down, as befitting the etiquette for epistolary exchanges. The letter John Childermass received has been lost for years now, so we have no better proof than the one here exhibited. 
> 
> [2] We have here reported the content of a card which was delivered to John Segundus on the 20th of July. Despite the fact that Mr Childermass’s calligraphy was as excellent as ever, it was clear that it had been written in a hurry over the first piece of paper the writer had been able to put his hands on - in this case a scrap of an inn’s receipt, since the back of the card still showed what had been charged to Mr Childermass for his horse’s pasture. The card was not signed, but Mr Segundus was well acquainted with Mr Childermass’s handwriting by then; besides, the reference was unmistakable and the card was followed, a week later, by a letter, presumably written after Mr Childermass had finished whatever business had brought him to spend two nights in an inn. His letter did not include any mention of his travelling, and Segundus did not enquire. We have not deemed it crucial to transcribe this letter here. 
> 
> [3] There has been some debate concerning the conclusive remark John Segundus added to his letter. Though he had always been prone to _post scripta_ , being somewhat a non-methodical writer in his private correspondence, he took care of omitting them, often rewriting his letters from the start in order to compose them in a better shape (evidence of this can be found in Henry Purfois’s recollections _Notes on my time at Starecross_ ). Therefore it is a rare occurrence to find a post-script which has survived John Segundus’s rewriting habit. The case is more mysterious once we consider the content of the remark: despite the fact that John Segundus did not know Gilbert Norrell’s very well, especially at the time, it seems strange that he might have inferred that he would return to Yorkshire for the hunting season. Hunting had never been of Norrell’s taste, despite the fact that the land around Hurtfew Abbey would offer many diversions in that regard. But a distaste for physical exertion, united to the repulsion at the sight of blood, kept Gilbert Norrell from any such enjoyment of the country life. These notions were well-known among all of Norrell’s servants and neighbours, let alone the fact that Norrell had _not_ returned to Yorkshire once since his move to London. This has led a small groups of historians to interpret this _post-scriptum_ as a sign that by the autumn of 1808 John Segundus and John Childermass were sharing a coded language and that _hunting season_ consisted in an open invitation. The author of this volume rejects this theory as completely preposterous, as the relationship between the men had not yet reached such closeness to justify their adoption of a code and there are no other occurrences of it. It is certain, though, that the polite enquiry about Mr Norrell’s whereabouts was meant to hide John Segundus’s wish to know if Childermass would return to Yorkshire any time soon. 
> 
> [4] Following the discovery of Dr Pale’s love letters to Francis Pevensey, magicians had been debating about the identity of the latter, alternatively deciding that the recipient must have been Pevensey’s sister or - like Hether-Gray proved - the very author of _The Eight Wonders_. Hether-Gray’s thesis caused the debate to move onto the problem of accepting that a woman could be Pale’s pupil. An aborted duel was among the most curious side-effects of the debate.


	7. Of Silence and Dances

_June 5 th, 1817_

 

She was impressed by the tidiness of the house. From her former associations with poets and magicians - one magician, actually - her mind had inferred a connection between disorder and genius; yet, when she gave herself time to take in the new surroundings (that is to say after Mrs Strange and she had had a good night’s sleep and a quiet breakfast to themselves), she realised that Starecross Hall was not what she had expected[1]; neither were its inhabitants.

A questioning mind was one of Flora’s most praised qualities in certain intellectual circles; in truth, it was the natural outgrowth of her tendency to constantly question herself, heart and mind. Some found her brain, and consequently her opinions, a little too volatile for the taste of the age, which would rather have women, if they must have opinions of their own, at least to stick to them for the longest time. Flora could be inconsistent at times, but she was serious rather than flimsy, to the point that some of her revolutionary friends had accused her of being too conformist to enjoy the new realm of possibilities revealed by poetry and escapades.

The point was that Miss Greysteel had a mind of her own, and she would change it gladly and swiftly if experience taught her that her previous assumptions had been wrong.

Therefore, on a fine June morning, sitting among strangers in a strange country - for she had never been to Yorkshire before - she looked around the neat drawing room and at the people sitting in it, then decided she had been much mistaken in presuming that all magicians would be... _Manfreds_ (Lord Byron had sent a copy of the poem to Arabella, but only Flora had read it and she still felt rather guilty about how she had enjoyed that fanciful reading).

Not only had several hours already gone by since their arrival at Starecross without anyone _performing_ any magic - after all Jonathan Strange himself had never been very keen on showing her any magic, except when magic had decided to put on a show of its own - but the reception had been very commonplace. If Flora had been asked what had caught her attention on her first meeting with Mr Segundus, Mr Childermass, and Mr Strange’s pupils, she would have been hard put to describe anything interesting about them.

The older magicians, Mr Segundus and Mr Childermass, were quiet and kind, especially the former. The latter had seemed more likely to be a _character_ \- there was something Byronic about him, if one did not expect too much - but his manners were smoother than his accent, and he seemed quite happy with keeping himself at the very edge of the small circle of Starecross inhabitants, while Mr Segundus played the host for the ladies.

On the other hand the younger magicians - she had annotated their names as soon as possible lest forget them and embarrass herself: Tom Levy, William Hadley-Bright, Henry Purfois - looked like the other young men Flora had met during her travelling: very serious about themselves and very boyish about everything else, a touch melancholic at times but with a hearty appetite. Hadley-Bright was the most gallant, Purfois apparently reminded Arabella of Mr Norrell, Levy often frowned. All three had been paying their kind attentions to both women, making them feel welcomed. Flora suspected that Starecross had not offered them any entertainment apart from the study of magic. So they were all a little bored and eager to be of any service to the ladies - _eager to fall in love with you_ , Arabella had teased her while they were preparing for bed the night before.

In truth Flora was far more curious about the mysterious Mr Vinculus and afraid that the most interesting lodger had been temporarily removed from the house for the very purpose of preventing the lady guests from meeting him.

“ _Vinculus_ is...he is what you call the King’s Book?”

It was as if Arabella had read her thoughts. Flora was not too surprised by her bold opening, because she knew that Arabella would have gladly let the others speak first, but since nobody seemed sure about how and where to begin, she had taken the responsibility upon herself.

It made Flora feel a little in awe of Arabella, yet she did her best to appear as much at ease among the magicians. Had she not assured her father and her aunt that she would be perfectly fine with Mrs Strange as her chaperone, and that her friend needed her more than ever now that she had set her mind on returning to England? Pity for Arabella’s fate had convinced Doctor Greysteel at last, but Flora had had to promise that she would let them know all about her stay at Starecross.

_Mr Segundus has a smooth, honest face_ , Flora would later write in her letter to him. _Arabella says that his gentleness is often mistaken for weakness or shyness, but though he is a little timid, his ideas are not._ And when Mr Segundus started speaking, Flora saw that Arabella was right and that the man could talk in a clear, neat way, but without any condescension toward them.

“Vinculus is an uncommon man. And an overwhelming one at times,” Mr Segundus was saying, while he poured tea in all their cups. The maid - a portly girl with greenish eyes - had been in the room a moment before, but Mr Segundus had signalled to her that he did not need her help. “That is the reason why we deemed it wiser to postpone his introduction, for I would like you to be completely aware of the particular position Vinculus holds in this house. You see, while everyone here is devoted to the cause of English magic and some of us might be called to playing a very important role in the events to come, I am afraid that only Vinculus is irreplaceable.”

Mr Childermass, who was standing by the bookcase and lazily leafing through some volume ( _you will see how Mr Childermass chooses the best position to observe the scene,_ Arabella had warned her[2]), made a little noise, in truth no more than a polite cough. Flora would not have thought much of it, if she had not noticed a faint stammer in Mr Segundus’s words and thus realised that something of a reproach had just passed.

“I mean no disrespect for all the magicians present and for our work,” Mr Segundus started again, “but Vinculus, you see, has been...marked. When we say that he is the King’s Book, we mean that...”

“He’s written all over,” Hadley-Bright said, with the air of being still very amused by the idea. “In blue writings. It looks like ink, except that no amount of scrubbing will take it off. Not that Vinculus had ever tried very hard before coming to Starecross and be taught the basic principles of hygiene by Mr Segundus.”

Flora had to bit her lower lip to keep herself from giggling. She was not shocked, for no young lady who had travelled and visited several charitable places could be really shocked at the thought of how infrequent baths were at certain level of society. Yet she found Mr Segundus’s disappointed frown quite amusing, together with the reproachful stares Levy and Purfois turned on their colleague.

“Thank you Mr Hadley-Bright for putting the matter so clearly before the ladies,” Mr Segundus said at last, with half a sigh. “This makes Vinculus the only book of magic left in England, all the others having disappeared together with Hurtfew Abbey. Or at least he is the most reliable book we could ever hope for, being a...work of magic in itself. Unfortunately it is written in the King’s Letters.”

“No one knows how to read them,” Purfois interjected, “though there are several books I could suggest to the ladies to introduce them to the subject. Though not strictly books on magic, they would help you realise the endeavour of deciphering a forgotten language, one of the most fascinating sciences that you could...”

“I am sure you will provide the ladies with an exhaustive list, Mr Purfois,” Segundus interrupted him, gently pushing a cup of tea in Purfois’s hands. “For the time being, I hope it will suffice to say that the deciphering of the King’s Book must be considered one of the most urgent matters at hand. Since the return of magic an increasing number of people has been experiencing magic and we still do not know how it will affect our society, our beliefs, and - more practically - our daily life. Therefore we need to reconstruct our knowledge of magic, otherwise we will not be able to understand what is happening, nor to control it. There are dangers which come with magic and most people are ignorant of them; there are potentialities, too, but without guidance we cannot be sure of the consequences of even the simplest spell.”

“It seems that magic has grown more complicated than it was,” Arabella said.

“I am afraid, madam, that magic as we knew it when Jonathan Strange and Gilbert Norrell were among us was a tame thing compared to the magic now flowing into England’s rivers and walking through England’s woods.”

It was the first time that Mr Childermass had spoken. He did it, Flora thought, with great authority.

“There is also another thing I wish you to be aware of about Vinculus,” Mr Segundus said, while he stirred his tea with his eyes slightly downcast. “I have talked at length with him, because I believe that who he is could be as important as what is written upon him. So I tried to retrace his steps since his childhood and with Mr Childermass’s aid have reconstructed his role in the rise of Mr Strange and Mr Norrell. I think it is now clear that Vinculus was the man under the hedge.”

“The one who called Jonathan Strange a magician,” Henry Purfois offered, but Flora did not need any explanation.

Arabella had told her about the way Mr Strange had become a magician. The meeting had always held a certain fascination in Flora’s eyes, because she was herself prone to think that meeting a certain person at a certain point in one’s life can change one’s fate. And if she was talking about herself, who could have blamed her, considering that she now found herself among magicians and in the Raven King’s land as the consequence of her chance meeting with Jonathan Strange?

“I see,” Arabella said calmly.

_At the beginning I wondered if Jonathan had not invented the man under the hedge to give some glamour to his new ambition_ , she had told Flora once, while they were still in Padua. _Then I saw what Jonathan could do and I understood that someone had called him to become...oh, I do not know what he was supposed to become, but I think neither did he. I wonder where the man under the hedge is now._

Apparently the _man-under-the-hedge_ was at Starecross now. Flora felt that she would have much liked to meet him and discover how he had known that Jonathan Strange was a magician and how...

“Vinculus had been most eager to stress the fact that your husband and Mr Norrell had a role in the spell the Raven King was weaving. More precisely, that they were his spell,” Mr Segundus continued.

“You mean to say that they were puppets,” Arabella said.

Her words made the gentlemen uneasy. Flora thought that they were a little shocked, especially the young men, by the fact that Arabella could mention her husband so serenely. Not only did she not burst into tears, but her voice did not falter and she did not avert her eyes. Still she was not cold or unaffected; she was clearly willing to listen to their explanations and her ways were demure, as befitting a woman very recently separated from her husband - though she had set her mind upon not wearing black.

The magicians did not know that Arabella Strange had asked Flora to tell her, over and over, about Mr Strange’s time in Genoa and Venice. At the beginning Flora had been concerned with what Arabella could guess from listening to her accounts. Then, when she had realised that the other woman was too kind to ever expose or condemn her past hopes that Jonathan could form some attachment to her, Flora had started noticing that Arabella was using her retelling as _practice_.

She had taught herself to welcome any talk about her husband without betraying her feelings, keeping her wits about her. So Arabella had gasped the first times she had heard her husband’s name spoken by another woman, cried at night - when she thought that Flora was already asleep - after they had conversed at length about him, being prone to sudden outbursts of irritation over small things in the following days. But she had steadily and firmly buried all this, deeper and deeper, until she could face the people who had known her husband and would talk of his fate without encumbering anyone with her grief.

Flora had never loved her friend more.

“We do not know how much Vinculus’s claims can be considered absolute truths,” Mr Segundus replied. “It is for the purpose of ascertaining what happened and deciphering the King’s Letters that the Learned Society of York Magician has been recreated. Starecross Hall was chosen as the Society’s headquarters, but only Mr Childermass, Mr Levy, Mr Hadley-Bright, Mr Purfois, and I live here, together with Vinculus. Magicians are welcome to call at Starecross and contribute to the study, but more often are encouraged to pursue other lines of research, according to the most orderly plan we could draw up and agree on. Meetings are held, books are searched all over the country, linguists and scholars in foreign languages are the recipients of letters and calls to discover the best methods for deciphering the King’s Letters, and many other magicians are writing their report on the return of magic, gathering all the information they can about magical episodes and fairy roads.”

“It looks like a vast, complicated effort,” Arabella said.

“It is, madam,” Hadley-Bright nodded. “We work day and night in turns, and still...”

“Still we have not made any interesting discovery, neither in the understanding of the King’s Letters nor of Mr Strange and Mr Norrell’s whereabouts,” Mr Segundus admitted.

“So you think my husband is alive.”

“Don’t you?” Mr Segundus looked taken aback. He could not help a longer glance at Arabella’s pale blue gown - _they all noticed the absence of black, even if they did not remark upon it_ , Flora thought. “You must pardon me, Mrs Strange, but when we received Miss Greysteel’s letter, announcing your wish to pay a visit to Starecross, we thought...”

“You thought that I would come here to ask you to bring my husband back.”

“Yes,” Mr Segundus said simply.

“In fact, I am here to ask you to let my husband exactly where he is.”

 

*

 

_February 10 th, 1816_

 

At the beginning she had thought that the tiredness was the worst of it. The aching torpor of her limbs that made her feel older than her mother; the dull beat at her temples, reminiscent of the rhythm of the drumming that announced the arrival of each new guest (guests would pour in the whole night, their names shouted by the herald and picked up by dozens of voices); the way she would be unable to keep her thoughts together, like dried flowers that the gentlest touch would crush and turn to dust.

Such tiredness was malicious and cruel, but it was the impossibility of speech that was breaking her heart.

She had tried over and over, yet it did not matter how sympathetic her listeners meant to be, or if they possessed all the advantages of education and wit. She would not be heard.

She would practice the speech in her mind and sharpen her thoughts like she had never done before (for she had been a soft, gentle talker, owing to her cough and upbringing alike). Now no longer was she concerned with graceful words, respectable words; true words were good enough for her and she would gladly cry and yell them, stomp her feet, beat her breast, and be right mad in front of everyone - if only she could speak them at last!

But she was thwarted every time, for the words came out wrong and she would find herself telling another story (different but not so very different, to the point that she wondered why nobody had guessed it yet).

They had found her eccentric at first; now, mad. Which was how she felt, still she resented their calling her mad. Oh she could have laughed her head off at their naivety, especially her husband’s, for they were unable to conceive anything beyond their own narrow, cramped world. She had seen more than any of them, travelled through lands they could not start imagining; not even Norrell knew what was on the other side (the King of Lost Hope often spoke to her about Norrell’s abysmal ignorance of all things), but she danced there every night, and she had seen and heard things which would make them scream in their sleep.

She did not scream, for she did not sleep; only, in the world of men, there was the appearance of sleep.

When she better thought about it (she had so much time to think at Starecross now), her current hardship no longer seemed exceptional though. The tiredness, for instance, she had known before - hadn’t she spent most of her adolescence and youth as a sick, invalid thing?

As for the silence, she now saw that she had been silent all her life.    

Silent and passive she had been with her mother, letting her nurture the delusion that she was not sick, only delicate; silent and passive she had been with her fiancé, accepting his clumsy courtship and boring conversation; silent and passive she had been with her fiancé-turned-husband, letting him suffocate her with his cares during the brief first part of their marriage (but she had been dying and she had known it, why had she never told him so and spared them both his elephantine helpfulness?).

Then Norrell had brought her back, like an old puppet restored to the nursery and forced to dance again on its strings for the amusement of the very same children who have cast it away before (she knew she should not blame anyone for her sickness, and yet she raged!). Yes, the magician had brought her back, but she had been both the prize and the price of his hideous black magic: now her sleep was not her own like her waking hours had never been her own.

But that was her own fault.

She had been so accepting: constantly abiding by other people’s desires, lowering her eyes even when she had not felt an ounce of shyness in her breast, disguising her thoughts and submitting her will, her wit, her very soul; making herself scarce - a body, uninhabited.

Silence, then, had seemed a way out. Silence would protect her from any harm which might come from resisting their wishes, and from the humiliation of not being taken seriously. But she had realised that silence had not only shielded her, it had also hidden her and trapped her. Silence had grown around her heart, made it thick with words which would no longer come up her throat, soured her thoughts, her desires moss.

_Words unsaid_ , she thought, _can never be said._

When she had started struggling against such a cage, they had looked at her in alarm, then in horror that she would defy them when she had been so meek, so compliant before, when she had endured and taken all so gently, so quietly, so gratefully. _If you put your head under our foot once, why not again?_ _If you accepted it a first time_ , they seemed to say, _why not a second, a third, a fourth, and so on till we break your pride and dry your heart? A yes said once is a yes forever to us. You cannot take it back now, you must dance, dance, and dance, you doll, you puppet._

_All women,_ she thought bitterly while she pressed her hot forehead against the cold surface of the table, _are raised to feel shame and guilt over their own thoughts, and so practice silence. That is how they prepare us for marriage_.

“I can’t be silent.”

The words were so close to her feelings that, for a moment, Emma thought she had spoken them aloud. But no, it was not her voice, she had not been talking to herself like madwomen were said to do all the time; it was a man’s voice, rough and urgent, and it came from the landing. She put her shoeless feet down on the floor (she had kicked her slippers under the sofa in a fit of rage, an hour or so before) and tiptoed to the door.

It was, she knew, locked with the key Mr Segundus kept in his apron. Though Mr Segundus disapproved of any kind of restriction, he had admitted that his first duty was to ensure everyone’s safety at Starecross, so she would not be free to wander through the house ( _not yet_ , he had added softly). She had showed her teeth to Mr Segundus then, just for the pleasure of scaring him and giving him what he was looking for in her - a madwoman. Yet she had vaguely appreciated the fact that Mr Segundus had been so frank about his fear that she might hurt someone in the house. On the contrary, Sir Walter had been keen on convincing her that it was done for her safety alone: it was Sir Walter’s caprice to say that everything was done for her sake, choosing to ignore that she had tried to shoot the magician and she would have probably managed to tear Sir Walter’s political career to shreds sooner or later. She would have also tried again to dispatch Gilbert Norrell, given the chance, and she had told Sir Walter just so, which was probably what had eventually convinced him that she must be committed to a madhouse. Or maybe it had been Norrell who had convinced him (but no, such things were below Norrell, he had probably sent his man to talk to Sir Walter, the servant who had taken the bullet for him).

“Childermass, you must leave,” she heard Mr Segundus say, on the other side of the door.

_Childermass_. That was the name. How could she have forgotten the name of the man she had almost killed? And the man was at Starecross now! Emma pressed herself against the door, dazed at the thought.

She had not seen him since...since the day of the shooting, and she was greatly taken with curiosity, wishing to look at him and examine the scar the bullet must have left. Unless Norrell had employed his damned magic and erased any mark, but she had heard Sir Walter say that the man had almost died, so it might be that again Norrell’s magic was useless in such cases.

After all, last time he had dealt with death Norrell had had to bargain her nights to a fairy, and the magic which had taken her back was the gentleman’s, right? He had told her so, the gentleman, while he squeezed her waist during the dances.    

Emma almost gave a cry when something hit the door. She took a step back, both her hands flying at her own mouth to smother her surprise. She realised that it must have been Mr Segundus, his back now to the door.

“I cannot let you see her,” he heard him say indeed. She felt a rush of affection for him, mingled with a certain amusement at the idea that he was trying to shield her from the man she had shot - oh, he was one to choose his battles poorly, Mr Segundus!

“I don’t care for the lady,” Childermass grunted. Emma frowned.

“Tell your master that we shall take care of her, but neither of you nor any other agent will be welcome here at Starecross. I have accepted this task, as you urged me to do, but that is the end of...”

“I said that I do not give a damn for the lady right now. She is not the reason I am here.” A pause. “She was, I will not deny it, but I am back because I...would you look at me?”

Mr Segundus said something Emma did not catch. There was a grunt, maybe other words, and then:

“I dislike the way we parted,” Childermass said.

Emma held her breath. She was not inclined to feel any sympathy for Childermass, whom she had long considered hardly better than Norrell’s filthy shadow, and not even the idea that she had injured him softened her feelings. After all men took revenge on their opponents all the time, regardless of the casualties; why should she not do the same?

Yet Emma could not help noticing that there was something enticing in the simplicity of the man’s admission. She wondered how they had parted, Mr Segundus and Childermass, and if she had been the cause of their quarrel. _How though?_ She now understood that Childermass had wanted her at Starecross and he had taken upon himself to convince Mr Segundus. She also knew that she was the first _guest_ Mr Segundus welcomed at Starecross in such a capacity, and she imagined that Norrell had accepted not to make a scandal on condition that she was taken away from London and confined somewhere.

And yet Emma could not help hoping that Mr Segundus would not send Childermass away. It might be that she wanted to hear more of it, because she was bored or she was still looking for an escape; it might be that Childermass’s mild words had left her under the impression that there was much unhappiness about them.

“We cannot stay here,” Mr Segundus said after the longest silence. There was a faint tremble in his voice. “In the garden. We will talk in the garden.”

“As you wish.”

Emma was tempted to hit the door with her hands; then at least they would have taken notice of her. She was disappointed at the idea of no longer being able to listen to their voices and knowing what was the matter between the two men. For once, just for once, the people around her seemed concerned with something different from her madness, and she would have gladly taken what little entertainment was left to her. She listened harder, hoping that Childermass would change his mind - he had not sounded too enthusiastic about moving it to the garden, had he? - but at last she made for the window.

She was almost despairing that she would see them, but there appeared Mr Segundus, fast-paced and so clearly nervous that she would have liked to shout at him _Do not fret, he will use any weakness against you!_ (that was all her experience). But that would have meant revealing her presence and she would not have been able to do it anyway, since the window was locked as well and she could only look at them through the glass pane.

Childermass followed a moment later, his pace slower, as if he had suddenly forgotten whatever urgent matter he meant to discuss with Mr Segundus. From the first floor Emma could not see their faces very well, but she could not miss the way they looked - like two dogs set against each other and still unwilling to fight.

It was, she thought amusedly, a very nasty comparison for a lady’s mind. She had overheard Sir Walter’s secretary use it once or twice, talking about Sir Walter and some opponent of his, and she had thought that most men looked like this when they felt unequal to the task. Though separated by opinions, party, or class, a few men were unwilling to be at each other’s throat. This gentleness was one of the few things she had liked about Sir Walter - the fact that, though a man and a politician, he had lines he would not cross. His secretary had spoken in contempt then, but as she watched Mr Segundus and Childermass she thought that maybe they were both better men than Norrell.

Emma regretted that she could not hear what they were saying, but tried to make the most of what she could see. Now, for instance, it was Mr Segundus’s turn to speak. She could not tell, but she imagined that he was flushed, because she had already noticed that he grew flustered quite easily when he took something to heart, and the way he was pacing back and forth in the garden suggested that he was in distress. He talked a long time, reproachfully she thought, and Childermass stood patiently, not arguing, not defending himself. Only when Mr Segundus seemed to have run out of breath, did Childermass move.

He took just a couple of steps, but Emma noticed that they were enough to make Mr Segundus back away. _Oh, what has he done to you!_ She knew that human beings were often cruel to each other, and yet she had also convinced herself that she was the one excluded from society, while men (and others who were not men of this world) joined their forces to make her suffer. It was almost surprising to be reminded that Mr Segundus and Childermass must have lives of their own, and sorrows of their own, and apparently their sorrows met somewhere.

Not that there was any bold display of emotions. With the exception of Mr Segundus’s anxious pacing at the beginning, their conversation was being conducted with excellent poise. Only, Emma suddenly realised, she was able to decipher their charade, because she had been playing the game for years. She could see through their pretence of control, and she could give a meaning to any droop of their shoulders, tilting of the head, discreet averting of eyes. She did not pay attention to the airy pose Mr Segundus displayed while he looked beyond the garden walls, as if he was commenting on the murky clouds gathering over the moors; she noticed instead how his hand grasped the mossy stone as if in search of support. She did not give any credit to Childermass’s face either, hidden as it were under the shadow of his hat brim, but she rather examined the way he was keeping himself as still as possible, as if Mr Segundus was a timid beast who would be scared away otherwise.

Emma did not know what she should hope for: either that Mr Segundus could escape an interview which was evidently unpleasant to him, or that the two men would find a common ground (how painful it was to see that Childermass stole a long glance at Mr Segundus when the other had his eyes upon the moor, and that Mr Segundus would turn at the very moment Childermass shrugged in feigned indifference).

Still there was something Emma did not understand.

It was as if the air between Mr Segundus and Childermass was not common air, but another and rarer substance, a substance which had weight and volume, and occupied the space between them, so that each time they moved there was a pressure, a tension, something about to break or spring - she could not tell. It was like a thread and yet it was not like a thread, because a thread tying one to the other would have bothered them only when the distance between them increased beyond the length of the thread, but this made itself felt even when they came closer to each other.

Emma’s experience did not encompass it. She thought that she might have seen it before, for sometimes there would be the same strange, invisible rope wound around two people dancing at a party. Mr Segundus and Childermass were not dancing though, so she wondered how it must be to feel so separated and yet connected.

Then, suddenly, whatever music Mr Segundus and Childermass had been dancing to stopped. The latter walked to the garden gate, and brought his hand to his hat, whether to adjust it or to take his leave from Mr Segundus she did not know. She could tell, on the other hand, that there was something wrong with the way Childermass stepped outside the garden and made to walk to his horse (a great beast, with huge limbs and a peaceful bearing, which had made no sound during the whole interview, as if it was part of the landscape, no less than the barren cherry tree or the bluish hue of the rolling moor).

For a few moments, while Mr Segundus turned to walk back into the house, it looked like Childermass might just crumble down. Not like a woman might faint though, rather like a building might collapse, as if all his bones might suddenly dislocate themselves and his joints snap, snap, one after the other. It was a piteous sight, and for the first time since she had begun spying on them Emma felt like an intruder.

She blinked, and the time of her blinking was enough for Childermass to mount his horse. And with that he became part of the landscape too, as nonchalant and forbearing as his horse was; a man like any other, with no grief to show to the world, and all his limbs and thoughts whole. Emma felt her dislike come back, for now Childermass looked much as Norrell’s man again, therefore it was without regret that she let him ride away from Starecross.       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] _“Starecross Hall is a most well-run household. It is a great compliment to pay to the house, if you bear in mind that it hosts a small troop of gentlemen whose main pursuit lies in the direction of sleepless nights, mysterious concoctions, ink stains, and scattered books. I feel that it is the greatest fortune that these are Englishmen, for their upbringing seem to sustain them through the unpleasantness of their profession, so their manners never fail them. Arabella and I have been subjected to all the pleasantries you would expect from a respectable household, though the Starecross inhabitants differ from those of any other house I have ever visited: they pay our opinions the sincerest attention and never have they treated us as silly, inapt creatures (I think that Mr Segundus did a great deal in that regard, setting the most exquisite standard for the younger men). Oh Papa, how I have longed for such associations! How I have envied the frank, simple camaraderie gentlemen can cultivate so effortlessly, while we women...now, Arabella has just asked me why my cheeks have coloured so, and I have read my letter to her. She has kissed my forehead and told me that she has never doubted that Mr Segundus would run Starecross so neatly and wisely. I think she dotes on him very much and I cannot see why she should not, for all the people in the house clearly value his judgement, and none more than Mr Childermass. Mr Childermass is a very intelligent, shrewd man I think, but he always listens to Mr Segundus, though he does it in a way that would let you think he did not listen at all._ ” (excerpt from Miss Greysteel’s letter to her father Dr Greysteel, dated June 5th, 1817). 
> 
> [2] “ _I am not sure whether I like Mr Childermass or not. I think I would have grown a little frightened of him, if we had met elsewhere; he is not, I think, unkind, but very resolute. Sometimes he grows sharp with the younger gentlemen and I think that they are in awe of him; he is a serious, strict teacher to them, but I think everybody at Starecross really likes him, from the servants to Mr Purfois (who can turn his nose up so easily at what he dislikes!). Only Mr Segundus is often heard complaining about Mr Childermass. This very morning, for instance, he suddenly told me that there is no more contrary man than Mr Childermass. Which I found a curious thing to say, because indeed Mr Childermass is a little conceited and I suspect that sometimes he is amused by Mr Segundus’s fastidiousness, but I also think that there is a certain softness in Mr Childermass when he is around Mr Segundus. It is clear that he values their friendship, which - Arabella told me - goes back a long way, since the time when Gilbert Norrell was first revealed as a magician. Even if Mr Childermass is no longer a servant and ten years have passed from those days, he must cherish the fact that he and Mr Segundus have known each other for so long. Compared to that, we are but strangers, though I think that, in his sardonic way, Mr Childermass is not displeased with mine and Arabella’s presence here._ ” (excerpt from Miss Greysteel’s letter to her aunt, also dated June 5th, 1817).


	8. The Consequences of Magic

_December 27_ _ th _ _, 1809_

 

_Suppose he doesn’t come_. He had been mulling it over since he had got out of bed that morning, as if growing acquainted with such a possibility could soften the blow to come.

In truth he had no reason to think that Childermass would not arrive. His message, mysteriously delivered in the pocket of Segundus’s coat the day before, was as dry and neat as most of Childermass’s messages had ever been when he meant to be businesslike, and when Childermass was businesslike he did not miss his appointments. Of that, at least, Segundus felt quite sure.

Yet, what reason had Childermass to come to him? Segundus had a few ideas about it, but they made his cheeks warm and his thoughts muddled - not to mention other, less dignified, signals his body would send. So he tormented his lower lip with his teeth while keeping his thoughts in check.

Oh, he was a study in nervousness! He did not mean to pace the room, nor to keep pulling the curtains aside to take a look at the street below, and yet...

_Suppose he doesn’t come_. He would feel so ashamed for having wasted such a nice day. It was very cold, but the fresh snow fallen overnight had lent an unexpected delicacy to London, softening and whitening its edges and thorns. Who knew how many merry hours Segundus would have spent with the Stranges and the Honeyfoots, if only he had let himself been persuaded to leave the house in their company? But no, he had pleaded a tremendous headache - the lie still burnt on his tongue - and said that he preferred to stay behind rather than join them in their plans for the day and risk spoiling them.

They had all protested, for Jonathan’s plans of amusement were always very successful in his small circle, and no one had protested more than Mr Honeyfoot, to the point that Segundus had felt very close to confessing everything to his good friend and begging Honeyfoot’s forgiveness for the unreasonable, indecent desire to see Childermass again.  

Childermass’s message, which Segundus had been carrying in his pocket when he had met the Stranges at breakfast, had felt as heavy as a piece of lead. He had thought that it would make a hole through his pocket and fall out of it, or that it would catch fire, so fiery was his heartbeat against it. Segundus had stuck to his lie though, excusing himself despite Jonathan’s protests and telling Arabella that he would immediately return to his room to nurse his headache.

And there he was, waiting for Childermass.

_Suppose he doesn’t come. How stupid I would have been then! Suppose he doesn’t_...

...there was not a knock on the door. Only a click and, before Segundus could do more than stare at the door, the knob turned. The door creaked open, just enough to let Childermass slip into the room, apparently no thicker than a shadow. The shock of seeing him for the first time after Christmas Eve made Segundus stumble in the haste of offering to take Childermass’s coat.

Childermass looked at him in amusement, and divested himself of his coat in a shrug which left tiny snowflakes dancing mid-air. He would not let Segundus take anything from him and kept him at bay with a simple look of disapproval. He folded his own coat, took off his hat, and put them both on a chair. The ease he displayed, as if Segundus’s room had been his own (worse, as if Segundus was not even there!), sharpened Segundus’s nervousness.

“You were not sure I would come,” Childermass commented, after he had taken a look at Segundus’s face. It was impossible to say if Segundus’s doubts either pleased or displeased him.

“I’m not acquainted with...” _this kind of secretiveness_ , Segundus meant to say, but the words stuck in his throat. Childermass raised an eyebrow, as if he did not quite believe it. “How did you manage to get in the house without alarming the servants?” Segundus asked briskly, since he would rather not talk about his knowledge of such trades between men.

He instinctively felt that it would not please Childermass to know the exact extent of his ignorance, and that it would lead them back to that point where Childermass had decided that it was better for their correspondence to end. Not a point which Segundus meant to revisit too soon: despite how skittish he felt at the mere sight of Childermass - scarce flesh, sharp bones, and ragged look: all of him - in his room, there was also a kind of lightness starting in his chest, as if he had just learnt that there was more space in him for breath that he had thought before.    

“That is very simple. I have made myself welcome in the kitchen of this house,” Childermass said, with the air of one used to making himself welcome in many kitchens all over England. The idea stung, as if Childermass was a little too inured to this secrecy and too comfortable with the ruse to truly appreciate the exceptionality of their meeting - something Segundus, on the contrary, had not got over yet. “Only they think they have seen me leave the house, and I have not.”

“You mean that you have...bribed them?”

“I prefer other forms of persuasion.”

Segundus fell silent for a moment. They were both standing, a few steps apart, and he felt very shy.

“If one of them should talk...” he began at last, but Childermass cut him short.

“When I say that they think I left, I mean it exactly this way. I tricked them: you are safe from gossip, Mr Segundus. As I told you before that I am aware of the risks of any dealing between men of very different stations.”

_And you also told me you would not face such risks._ But Segundus did not ask Childermass why he had changed his mind, for he feared that he would not like the answer - what if it had something to do with Mr Norrell and Jonathan Strange rather than with him? In his experience, things usually had nothing to do with him, John Segundus. He was always in the background, essentially being collateral to all changes; besides Childermass’s motives always seemed so shrouded in mystery, while Segundus felt that there was not an ounce of inscrutability about him. _I’m a plain man_ , he reasoned with himself, while he tried to steal a glance at Childermass without being seen (looking at Childermass was always arduous, quite testing indeed, because the man had this way of looking right back at you); _yes, I’m a plain man_ _with complicated desires_.

“Are we _dealing_ now?” Segundus asked, in a tone he supposed would sound coquettish (the extravagance of thinking of such an immodest word!). Childermass huffed a laugh.

“Not yet, Mr Segundus,” he replied, throwing him a glance from under the fall of his dark hair. He was going through the pockets of his overcoat and clicked his tongue when he found whatever he had been looking for. “Sit, I’ll show you something.”

Segundus felt sure that he should have protested at being ordered about, but there was a promise in Childermass’s voice, the faintest hint of excitement which made Segundus’s heart sped up a little.

He was not used to having Childermass around. Their meetings had been numbered and the letters had carried the man’s words and ideas, but not the exact timbre of his voice or the quirk of his lips, nor the way his eyes looked very, very black (though Segundus knew they were just dark brown). And while it was not Childermass’s wont to show anything but a generic, polite insouciance to all things on earth, especially if those things were human beings, Segundus felt equally amazed at the sudden luxury of being alone with the man.

Segundus took his place on the turquoise settee, while Childermass revealed a small glass (Segundus strongly suspected that it belonged to the house kitchen, for he had seen the same design before) and filled it with water from the pitcher. When Childermass joined him on the settee, he held the glass in his right hand and what looked like a shapeless piece of wax in the other.

Segundus had just the time to notice that there was an edge to Childermass’s expression, not exactly nervousness - did Childermass ever look nervous? - but anticipation, and a sharp hunger to succeed. Half-closed eyelids but eyes burning blacker under them, mouth moving around words Segundus did not catch, body growing slightly tense...

Then it _hit_ Segundus.

Not as a wave, not as a fever, but as the brush of damp grass against bare skin. It was not wholly pleasant at first, then it was almost a shock, for he realised that never before had he felt the grass this way, never felt it growing right out of his skin, just at the edge of the rabbit hole where his heart had tumbled down. And there was something in the grass, as shiny as a snake, but warm to the touch, green-bluish like a will-of-the-wisp. It glowed, very faintly, more a memory of something than a something itself, and Segundus saw that the glow painted Childermass’s fingers an emerald green.

Above it, Childermass’s face slowly came into focus; again, not agitated, but tense. The sharpness of his gaze made Segundus’s head throb slightly and when he tried to speak he discovered that he had to swallow first. It left a taste of rain in his mouth.

“Your magic. This is your magic,” Segundus managed to mumble at last; it was hard to say what made him so dizzy - the magic itself or the revelation.

“You feel it?” Childermass asked briskly, as if he was displeased with himself for asking.

Segundus nodded. He slumped a little against the settee, while he kept watching the glass.  

“What is it?”

The glow died down, all of a sudden. Childermass took a deeper breath, put the glass and the piece of wax on the near small table, then leant gingerly against the backrest, as if he very much wanted to prop himself up and rest, but preferred to remain vigilant.

“Jacques Belasis’s Scopus,” he answered with admirable coolness.  

But Segundus saw right through his humble tone: Childermass was satisfied with himself and, more surprisingly, impatient to see if Segundus meant to share his pleasure. It was another kind of revelation, this sudden and unguarded need of Segundus’s companionship Childermass was displaying, to the point that Segundus tried to bite his laugh down, but ended up grinning, just a step away from giggling.

“What?”

“Oh, I am very sorry,” Segundus now could not help the soft, bubbling laugh.

Childermass frowned, and he looked like he was seriously considering being offended - no, maybe not offended, but certainly detached, distant. And Segundus, not quite knowing what to do to keep him exactly where he was and certainly ill-equipped to explain his own happiness, put his hands on Childermass’s cheeks and let his fingers slip through his hair, mussing it over his ears. He was rewarded by the dismayed look which appeared on Childermass’s face for a moment, as if he had not expected anything of the sort.

“I wasn’t laughing at you or your magic,” Segundus said quietly, while his thumbs drew slow circles at Childermass’s temple. It was apparently what Childermass needed after doing magic, for not only did he not back away, but he very cautiously relaxed in the touch. “ _Your magic_ ,” Segundus repeated, in stupor. “It is...it is amazing. I did not know. I should have known, shouldn’t I?”

“No,” Childermass frowned again, as if he did not know what else his face should express right now.

“I suppose one can’t spend so much time at a magician’s side without picking up how to do magic.”

“He taught me Belasis’s Scopus.”

It was to be expected: a master giving his servants some notions of his business, thus enabling the servant to better serve him. It was part of the ordinary dealings between masters and servants, and it spoke well of Norrell’s trust in Childermass: it never took just an intelligent, quick-learning servant, but also a master willing to teach and lend his servant the tools for his own education and advance in the world.

Still the thought of the gratefulness Childermass must feel toward Mr Norrell did not sit well with Segundus, reminding him of that invisible thread tying servant to master at the Christmas Eve party. Worse, it made Segundus bitter like the thought of that small heap of broken cheap pipes left on his desk in Lady Peckett’s yard (a reminder of how he was never quite right as to the way things were supposed to work; things or people). He let some of that frustration turn into words.  

“I cannot imagine Mr Norrell as a teacher. Indeed he has never struck me as the kind of man who would willingly share his knowledge, let alone his books, with anyone.”

“You were of another opinion when you sent Jonathan Strange to Hanover square.”

“Even Mr Strange says...” Segundus began, then fell silent and vaguely ashamed of himself.  

“He likes to complain, your Mr Strange.” The _your_ stung, but Childermass’s cheeks were growing warm against Segundus’s hands and Segundus was unwilling to lose that delicate, tickling heat blooming under his palms. “But I am not a good pupil either,” Childermass pointed out.

“You learnt Belasis’s Scopus, I wouldn’t say you make such a bad pupil,” Segundus protested warmly, eager to mend the damage done with his biased comments about Mr Norrell’s conduct. “In fact, this makes you...the third magician in England. Or is it the _second_? Did you practice magic even back then, when we first met?”

“Did you feel magic this way, when we first met?” Childermass asked in return.

Apparently he had given more thought to the subject, for he shewed no surprise. Segundus, on the contrary, felt that he had had very little time to absorb the notion that John Childermass was a magician and probably had been for some time in the shadow of Mr Norrell’s increasing fame.

_John Childermass, a magician_.

It was...exciting, frustrating, the idea that there was so much more about Childermass that he still did not know, and the idea that the distance between them was different from what he had thought before. Not the gentleman and the servant of Childermass’s own depiction of their stations, but an impoverished gentleman and a magician.

Childermass, probably thinking he had not heard the question, made to repeat it.

“Did you feel magic...”

“You expected me to feel it when you came with the glass and the wax,” Segundus accused him.

“I observed you at the Christmas party.”

Segundus took his hands away from Childermass’s face, half-horrified at the thought that he had made a fool of himself before everyone the other night, caught as he was in the light-headed, effervescent pleasure of Jonathan’s magic. He gathered his hands in his lap and stared at the floor, hoping that Childermass would not notice how high the colour was rising in his cheeks (but Childermass would, Childermass always noticed everything, apparently).

“Do you know what Belasis’s Scopus is supposed to shew?” Childermass asked.

“Only from books he did not write himself.”

“It reveals the presence of magic. This,” Childermass shewed him the piece of wax, whose existence had almost been forgotten by Segundus, “comes from one of the candles Strange lit by magic the other night. It retains a little of his magic...Strange hasn’t yet learnt that all things he touches with magic hold some of it, and so he leaves traces of his doings everywhere, like a child smearing jam all over the furniture.”

“You...you would compare his magic to jam?” Segundus began, feeling indignant and forgetting his own shame. “It is not, I can assure it does not feel...” Childermass tilted his head.

“I rather meant to compare your perception of magic to what Belasis’s spell does. Just like the water in the glass, you took on a glow each time Strange did any magic, as if someone had kindled a light inside you. And you followed the traces of his spells, the taste of...Mr Segundus?”

For Segundus had turned very scarlet now and could not quite hold Childermass’s gaze.

“You must think me some oddity, for I cannot do any magic of my own but only...and I am very sorry that I acted so ridiculously on Christmas Eve.”

“I have made myself misunderstood,” Childermass shook his head. “I did not mean to suggest that your reaction was in any way conspicuous. In fact you hide it well most of the time, Mr Segundus, especially if you are not caught unaware. I believe no one noticed but the Stranges and me. And I did notice, because I am as sensitive to magic as you are.” There was a pause, but Childermass resumed speaking at Segundus’s stunned silence. “I think Mr Norrell feels it too somehow, though he does not like to shew it. And Strange just rides its wave. You and I, on the other hand, are almost overwhelmed by it.”

Segundus stared at Childermass. _Overwhelmed_. A word full of edges and tender parts, and not one you would expect from Childermass, especially in relation to himself. Segundus knew that he was expected to offer his opinion on the matter, or at least express some feeling at the news - in truth he had not really exhausted his amazement at the idea that Childermass was a magician and had revealed himself to him of all people. Yet he did not speak at all, only looked at Childermass, until they were both frowning at each other and it was Childermass who broke the silence.

“You’re displeased.”

“Oh no, I am not,” Segundus assured him.

“You _look_ displeased,” Childermass insisted, his eyes narrowing until Segundus felt the impulse to scuttle away in search of something useful to do, rather than letting himself be the object of such an intent study.

“I’m not,” he repeated, his voice a little higher. He bit his lower lip and squeezed his knees. “Only I’m very glad to know that you too...you might find it foolish, but it makes me feel less alone.”   

Childermass blinked. Then he slowly leant forward, his sharp gaze pinning Segundus in place. His put his hand on Segundus’s cheek and then he moved his thumb until it pressed against Segundus’s lips. He thrust in, and it was the single filthiest thing Segundus had done in years when Childermass’s thumb pushed past his lips and into his mouth with rough impatience.

He did not know how it looked - how _he_ looked - right now, but Childermass seemed very concentrated on cultivating whatever expression Segundus was currently wearing, and possibly develop it into _more_ , for he dragged his thumb out until his nail was just grazing Segundus’s lower lip, then pushed it back inside.

Segundus gave a little, undignified whimper. At that Childermass abruptly moved his hand to grasp at Segundus’s neckcloth, pulled him forward, and then kissed him. Childermass’s mouth tasted of tobacco and strong tea - he must have smoked in the street, while he waited for Segundus to be alone in the house, and then accepted a cup from the servants downstairs. And there was a softness, a wetness in the kissing, denying the sharp cut of Childermass’s mouth, which had never looked tender enough for this.

After a brief hesitation - owing to surprise rather than displeasure - Segundus eagerly applied himself to the kiss, his hands fumbling with the many folds of Childermass’s clothing, his eyes falling shut when the man licked the inside of his mouth. Childermass rearranged the bent of their heads a few times, searching for the right angle to deepen the kiss and make Segundus tremble in delight.

When they separated for breath, Segundus found that Childermass was staring at him. He had the impression that he had stared at him for the whole duration of their kiss, so he coloured. Childermass put his open mouth against his cheek, as if he wanted to taste Segundus’s blush.

“I watched you sway against the influence of his magic,” Childermass murmured in his ear, while his long fingers carded through Segundus’s hair. “You looked so prim, your back so straight, and yet you could not help...I saw the way your mouth slackened when the magic hit. The darkening of your eyes. I thought of making you feel _me_ , and by the end of the night I did not know if I was thinking of my magic or my cock.”

Segundus almost jumped from the settee. He opened his mouth and then closed it again.

“You can turn very, very red,” Childermass remarked amusedly. Then, after he had studied Segundus’s scarlet face for another moment, his expression grew severe and he touched Segundus’s cheek with his knuckles. “You find me crude,” he said, in the most neutral tone, before taking his hand away.

“No, no, I...” Segundus stopped.

The word _was_ crude. Obviously he had heard it before - at school it was traded at night and in the darkness of cupboards, and he could still remember how his voice had always sounded very raw around it. Not Childermass’s. His Northern accent had just touched it, as it rolled out of his mouth...

“It is not the magic,” Segundus blurted out. Childermass raised an eyebrow. “The kiss. I mean, wanting to kiss you. It is not because of the way I feel about magic.” He swallowed, realising that Childermass had requested nothing of the sort, and they were talking about something else entirely, or maybe not, but anyway he had not been asked to give reasons for his desire to kiss Childermass. “I thought you should know,” he mumbled, drawing away ever so slightly.

Childermass did not stop him, but followed him, leaning in, his hands not quite touching Segundus.

“You are...” Segundus licked his lips. “ _looking_ at me,” he said, though he felt that the verb fell short of what Childermass was doing.

Childermass probably thought the same, because his mouth curled into a wolfish grin for a moment.

“Mr Segundus,” he called then, very softly. “Sir.”

“Yes, Childermass?” Segundus replied, feeling his mouth quite dry.

“You can send me from your room at your wish, sir. I am afraid I cannot do any more magic today, finding that memory of Strange’s magic took quite the toll out of me,” he admitted, for a moment looking dissatisfied with himself. “But we could talk magic.”

“Or we...”

Childermass looked at him, just one more time, then drew closer. They met half-way, their nose bumping one against the other at first, then Childermass gave way and tilted his head so that they could kiss properly.

It somewhat confused Segundus, that they could talk and kiss, then talk some more and kiss again. In his - albeit limited - experience, kissing belonged to a certain sphere of interaction with another man, so shrouded in secret and fears, and not rarely in guilt, that it had to be safely separated from anything else. The warmth of Childermass’s mouth was made more exciting by the thought of the words - words of magic, and words of desire - that it had hold a few moments before.

Fingertips tingling over the other man’s stubble, Segundus touched Childermass’s face, wondering if kissing him long enough would unlock new expressions and reveal something of the undercurrents of Childermass’s thoughts. But when Childermass broke their kiss, his expression was one of light, impartial amusement. For this reason, his next words were even more startling.

“I would like to open your breeches. Would that be agreeable, sir?”

Segundus gave a choked sound. His first thought was that there was far too much light in the room, and the second was that it would be extremely disagreeable if Childermass abstained from opening his breeches, now that he had suggested it with such annoying nonchalance. Not that his lower body had found anything discouraging in the man’s self-assurance, having instead chosen to react very enthusiastically to the plan.

“Please, go on,” Segundus whispered, since he did not trust his voice to rise above a murmur while retaining some dignity. And Childermass, _the scoundrel!_ , rather than proceeding immediately like Segundus would have liked at that point, stretched himself more comfortably on the settee, one hand supporting his head while the other skimmed over the creases in Segundus’s waistcoat, the creases which had bloomed in the heat of their embrace.

The slow, tortuous journey of Childermass’s touch made Segundus almost shaky with impatience. Since he could not - could not! - think of grabbing Childermass’s hand and led it where he most wanted it, he shut his eyes closed and pursued his lips. Almost immediately came Childermass’s kiss, coaxing Segundus’s mouth open, drinking his faltering breath and the gasp which punctuated the moment when Childermass started undoing his breeches.

He made a quick job of it, his fingers deftly popping the buttons out of their holes even while he was not looking but kissing Segundus the whole time. There was something exciting about Childermass’s dexterity, maybe because it hinted at the man’s skills - skills which did not belong to a gentleman - and thus reminded Segundus of the impropriety of what they were doing. Whatever shame he might have felt, it was cast aside by the eagerness of discovering what prowess Childermass might ever display once set in motion as he was now.

“Childermass!” Segundus moaned, when the man reached inside his breeches to take his cock out.

Segundus bit his tongue, realising that he had called Childermass’s name aloud because they were no longer kissing. He cracked his eyes open to see that Childermass had turned his head to watch what he was doing, and it was so unbearable to think that he was seeing what Segundus felt - in short, his erection - that Segundus resumed their kiss. Childermass muttered something against his mouth, probably a complaint, but did not refuse him.

His hold on Segundus’s cock, at first tentative, quickly improved, guided as it was by the way Segundus moved his hips seeking that delightful friction against Childermass’s not quite smooth palm. Segundus groaned in embarrassment when he realised that he had been pushing in the caress, and the warmth of the touch mingled with the heat of his blush, but he could not keep still. And Childermass did not seem to mind Segundus’s nervous thrusts, despite the fact that they clearly broke any rhythm he might have wanted to impart. Actually, Childermass became quite keen on eliciting more of them. He started interspersing words with his kisses, bold, outrageous words which shook Segundus almost as much as the firm pressure of the man’s fingers around his flesh.

In the days to come, Segundus would have a hard time keeping those words out of his mind, especially when he was alone in bed - and once or twice in other people’s company. Oh, the promises of those words! And the _gall_! The things Childermass threatened him with...yes, they were threats, a menace to Segundus’s best discipline, though he understood, in truth, only half of them.

The other half was so obscure, and so ridden with Childermass’s Yorkshire accent that Segundus had no specific idea about what they envisioned. But it was enough to feel how Childermass’s hand sped up and how rough his voice grew around those words to guess what debauchery they contemplated.

After a particularly cryptic and rugged turn of words, Childermass changed his position. One knee firmly planted on the settee, his other leg pushing between Segundus’s own legs, he lifted himself until he blocked completely Segundus’s view and was leaning over him. His cheeks had turned pink, Segundus noticed with an amazement close to tenderness, and his mouth had grown soft with their kisses. Never before had Segundus noticed how much to his liking Childermass was, but now he regretted that he had let himself be touched and hardly touched in return.

Indeed it was too late, for Childermass was already opening his own breeches and then pressing his cock against Segundus’s. It sent a jolt right up Segundus’s spine and he almost feared that he had reached complexion just from having the other man’s cock shoved against his own; he had not though, so he gave a groan when Childermass’s hand took to stroking them both.

But the worst of it, worse than the intimacy of the flesh, worse than the way a push of Childermass’s hips could amplify the pleasure all of a sudden, worse than the way he could not help moaning under the assault, was the feather-touch of Childermass’s hair against his cheek. For Segundus wanted to card his fingers through that hair, and he wanted again Childermass’s mouth, but he felt that if his hands relinquished the hold on the settee his body would come undone, unspool like an old garment.

So he let Childermass spur them both toward the peak, working their erections together and spinning their pleasure in narrower, narrower circles, until the pleasure was a knot tightened around his stones, and around his throat, a veil over his eyes, Childermass’s other hand touching his chest (but he would later doubt the truth of this last detail). Then light, filling him from head to toe, and the wetness pooling around his cock, its unpleasantness doing little to curb his delight.

He regretted, in the haze, that he had not really paid attention to what sounds Childermass might have let out when he had come. For he had come as well, a few moments after Segundus, mingling their seed and moving his hand for a few, lazy strokes, before letting go. There was a brief moment, a moment Segundus would treasure, when Childermass looked unstable on his feet, still a little wrecked.

Then he steadied himself and, with practiced movements, produced a small cloth with which he cleaned himself in a couple of swipes. He buttoned his breeches, which reminded Segundus that he had not really taken a look at Childermass’s private bits, though he still knew how it had _felt_. Before Segundus had time to worry about his own state, the more indecent now that Childermass was quickly regaining his composure, he was offered another cloth, damp with water from the pitcher.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice a little piteous in his opinion.

His movements, he knew, were not so assured as Childermass’s. He still felt weak and shaky from the pleasure, and though he had never known anything different from the sudden parting which must always follow such prohibited dealings between men, he felt a little colder for it nonetheless.   

“You do this often,” Segundus commented, while he finished cleaning himself. He was relieved noticing that his waistcoat had not been dirtied, but his shirttails needed more attention to remove all the traces.

“Corrupting gentlemen, you mean?”

The playfulness of Childermass’s tone was unexpected, as much as the way he fell sitting on the settee at Segundus’s side. He observed Segundus, while he untied his hair and tied it again after smoothing it back. It was rewarding to see that there was still a kind of curiosity in his eyes, as if he had not yet finished whatever _project_ he had started about Segundus. It made Segundus anxious to think of himself in terms of project, but it was the first thing which came to his mind when Childermass looked at him this way.

“Dallying with Mr Norrell’s acquaintances,” Segundus corrected him, trying to be as light-hearted.

“You call this _dallying_ ,” Childermass replied, amused. For a moment Segundus thought that they would kiss, but Childermass spoke again, more soberly this time. “I don’t. It is not safe, nor wise.”

“Neither is being a magician in incognito, I suppose,” Segundus pointed out.  

“I do not think I am wrong trusting your discretion, Mr Segundus.”

“You are not wrong, Mr Childermass.” _In both matters._

“You dropped the Mr before.”

Segundus knew that Childermass was thinking of a very precise _before_ , when his hand had been on him.

“If I wished to write to you, Mr Childermass, would you tell me again that...”

“I would be very hypocritical if I said no after _dallying_ with you, Mr Segundus.”

“I’m sure you know this doesn’t put you under any obligation!” Segundus protested, turning on the settee to better face Childermass in the heat of the argument. “Though it would most surely disappoint me, I would comply with your wishes, Mr Childermass. It is not my intention to be where I am not wanted or to write where...” and there he lost the trail of what he wanted to say, because Childermass was smiling.

Half a smile in truth, but nonetheless a smile very refreshing and very surprising, which did not really fit on Childermass’s face and yet had some beauty.

“I’ll write, Mr Segundus. And I mean to visit you, if that is agreeable and I find myself in the North. I am most curious as to your intention to comply with my wishes.”

Though blushing for what Childermass might be implying, Segundus could not help smiling back.

“Do we have an arrangement of sorts, then?”

“If you still wish it tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after, until you are back in the North.”

Segundus had not known that he had hoped to see Childermass again before leaving London, and now took the brunt of his own disappointment. Which was sharpened by Childermass returning to his feet, then taking his overcoat and clearly preparing to leave.

“The Stranges won’t be back soon,” Segundus murmured.

“Mr Norrell will though.”

Segundus said nothing, looking down at his hands. He did not know how they were supposed to part now; there was a promise of something to come, and yet he felt unsure as to how let Childermass go back to his master. Kissing was more a desire to keep Childermass with him a little longer, shaking hands would feel disappointing, and he could not think of any word.

“He doesn’t feel my magic like you. Mr Norrell. He does not feel my magic the way you do.”

Segundus looked up. Childermass was back to watching him in that way of his, which at another time Segundus could have interpreted as a desire to resume their kissing with less of their clothes involved, but now he recognised as hunger of another kind. A hunger for thoughts, and feelings, and secrets most of all. _But I have no secret!_ , Segundus would have liked to protest. The point was that Childermass looked like the kind of man who would patiently wait for a secret to hatch, even if it took months or years.

“Did you...” Segundus swallowed and made a very vague gesture, “for the way I feel about magic?”

Childermass grinned.

“Maybe.”        

 

*

 

_September 18th, 1817_

 

He would always associate the taste of rain with Childermass’s magic. Rain on the moor, and the infinite grey hues of sky and earth, rolling together toward the uncertain, fleeting horizon; the softness of the soaked ground, the gurgling and sucking of every step; the fragrance of heather and moss revealed at the turn of the tides of rain. All that would always feel like Childermass and his magic, though he knew that it was but a delusion, for Childermass could not be anywhere near.

Nothing could be near. Wherever he had got himself to, it was distant, so very distant from anything and anyone, for otherwise there would have been hope and the name of the place, if such a place can bear a name, was Hopelessness. So it was very clear to Segundus that it was not Childermass’s magic he could taste; it was rather a memory, a memory of spells and a memory of skin - Childermass’s, damp and cold under Segundus’s hands and mouth, as it had been the last time they had shared a bed.

_It is very sad_ , Segundus told himself, _that it must be how I die, thinking of how Childermass might have caught his death in that rain, after Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell vanished from the earth._

Then he heard Childermass calling him a bloody idiot. Another delusion, lost as he already was, though he could not help noticing that his mind could have supplied him with more pleasant hallucinations - was not that the whole point of being delusional? His mind should have conjured gentler words, even if he had to admit that this way the deception sounded more realistic: it was just like Childermass to insult him when he was having a most difficult time.

Actually it was almost a relief to be called an idiot and stop reading it between the lines. There was also something satisfactory about the fact that he had apparently managed, at least in his own hallucination, to imagine Childermass enraged. In other words to imagine a Childermass who would shout and throw insult at anything, and come after him, and just _care_ for once.

“You fool, you damn’ fool,” hallucination-Childermass growled, while he grabbed Segundus by his arms and shook him. His hold was haphazard though, and he lost it a couple of times before he could properly drag Segundus around like a rag doll. “Bloody idiot. I should leave you here, you imbecile...”

Segundus chuckled, even if it started a pain at the back of his skull.

“Mr Childermass, what happened to Mr Segundus?”

It was Purfois’s voice. It worried Segundus more than the rest, even more than the growing nausea and the mortal weariness which turned his legs and arms as heavy as lead, because he had no reason to dream of Henry Purfois of all people. He would have liked to meet Mr Honeyfoot for instance, and have a cup of tea with him. On the other hand Purfois had been especially pedantic of late and he had also got into his head to fall in love with Miss Greysteel and whine about it, so his company would not be Segundus’s first choice at the moment.

“Mr Purfois, go back to the house, tell the ladies to...”

“You can tell me yourself, Childermass.”

Arabella Strange was a more likely choice for his hallucination - she was his friend, wasn’t she? - still there was something annoying about being the topic of the conversation going on in his own mind.

“He needs help. You don’t need to know more now,” Childermass’s voice cut through the painful haze once more, ringing with authority. “Let go, Mr Levy, I can manage him. Rather take the...”

Segundus’s body probably figured out that this point of the hallucination was as good as any other to throw up the light breakfast he had taken before setting off that morning. He felt himself slipping from whatever or whoever had been holding him, slipping or spinning, spinning as if his body had forgotten Sir Isaac’s laws and decided to be something different. Like a planet, right, like a planet turning and turning. His stomach was certainly turning at least, he could feel it trying to get past his throat, which is not the kind of thing you would like your stomach to do, even if it has already unburdened itself of all its content - a pity, Lucy and Cook had made such a fuss over him that morning, discovering that he was all alone in the kitchen at such an early hour.

He would have liked to float back there, in the kitchen at the rise of the servants, when the smells were still untouched and the fire not warm enough - but almost more delightful like this, just a promise of the comfort to come. Still, something kept him back, kept pulling at him, tried to arrange his legs and arms in shapes which made sense (a vain effort, Segundus would have gladly explained, if he could have spoken at all). That unrelenting force, battling the likewise unrelenting force which wanted to keep Segundus folded and tucked away like a forgotten handkerchief, might have been Childermass. But he knew it was at best hallucination-Childermass, for real-Childermass would never spare a moment to fight against whatever force wanted to make a handkerchief of John Segundus (handkerchiefs being, Segundus mused, likely to be forgotten and easily replaced: the similarities did not escape him, even if he was hallucinating).  

“Oh, he’s being sick again!”

Now, John Segundus was not the kind of man to include young ladies like Miss Greysteel in his own delirium. It was true that she had been living under Starecross Hall roof for the summer, but this did not mean that he felt allowed to drag her into this carnival of ghosts going on inside his head.

“Flora, hurry back,” Arabella said. “Tell Lucy to prepare Mr Segundus’s room. Boil some water, bring towels, and...”

Sound of hurried steps, the brush of garments against the rocks and the heather.

“No doctor,” Childermass grunted, at the unasked question.

“Is it magic, sir?” Hadley-Bright asked, sounding uncharacteristically grim.

“Can’t you feel it?” Tom Levy replied. His voice was that of a man shivering, but he steadied himself. Segundus complimented his imagination, for he felt that this was a convincing, though flawed, play, all in all. “It’s everywhere.”

“It is different from...”

“Christ. Stop talking,” Childermass reproached them. “Make yourself useful. Aren’t you magicians?”

He was always a little too stern with the pupils, Segundus sighed in his mind. His imagination should have supplied Childermass with less arrogance and given the young gentlemen a break for a change. After all they were doing their best, like anyone at Starecross; yes, Starecross Hall had become something to be proud of, though Segundus was not sure that he was allowed to nurture some of that pride for himself.

Childermass, on the other hand, had grown into...yes, who was he nowadays? A magician, a leader of magicians, and also a politician. A scholar too, of the kind other scholars sought for advice. He would not say he had grown into a dangerous man though, for he had always been that. And he had also always been the kind of man who changes things around him, relentlessly and accurately.

“Now, seal the area. Use every protection spell you can think of. Let the plants help you, thorns and whips and roots to keep anyone from wandering right in.”

“ _In_ what?” Hadley-Bright asked.

There was a short silence, then Childermass spoke again.

“Mrs Strange, if only you would be so kind as to stay with him while I bring Brewer closer...”

“I am here, Mr Segundus.”

Arabella’s voice was a small masterpiece of his mind, as calm and warm as it had ever been in a crisis. Segundus felt very comforted by it, it helped him keep the other _things_ at bay, those sharp things which wanted to find a way under his skin, like needles and like cold, but cold has no eyes, and those things had plenty; needles have no hunger, and those things were very hungry. He knew, instinctively, that it was magic, though not of the kind they learnt, taught, and practiced at Starecross. Nor was it the kind of magic one found in rivers and stones nowadays. It was rather the magic which could convince rivers to be stone and stone to be rivers, a magic which could subvert things and warp things, and a magic which had a taste for severing you from what you are. Worse, it made you feel like you _wanted_ to be separated from yourself.   

“We could carry him with magic,” Purfois pointed out.

“Isn’t there enough magic around?” Childermass whipped back. There was a cracking in the air, the far rolling of thunder. “Keep to the seals.”

“Yes, Mr Childermass,” Purfois agreed meekly.   

Thunder roared above once more. Segundus was confused about it: while confident that all he heard was but a play in his head, mostly revolving around Childermass, the oncoming storm felt _real_. The smell of the air, heavy and nervous as it was with the promise of rain, a different quality of the light - he was in darkness, yes, but light can be felt with one’s skin, and his skin felt shadows and the thickening of clouds.

Then he was hauled up. Another wave of nausea hit him, he was propelled far from himself, which was not so bad since consciousness came with pain and sorrows, but he found himself pushed right back into his own body, weak and thin, and all stretched as it felt right now, shadow among shadows.

“Mr Segundus. Don’t.”

Segundus had no idea what hallucination-Childermass did not want him to do. It was very strange how one never really knew what his own dreams meant, despite the fact that most rational people agreed that they were not prophecies or mysteries, but only one’s thoughts and wishes arranged in fancy plots. Therefore Segundus should have been able to say what his mind wanted Childermass to want from him, and he was also quite sure that it should not have had anything to do with horses.

For he was being put on a horse. Brewer, of course it was Childermass’s unhandsome stallion that bore all his protests; Segundus was unaware of protesting, but hallucination-Childermass told him to quit the struggle and so he supposed that he was indeed making things difficult. He also tried to stop his trembling, but he could not.

He was very cold, immensely, ridiculously cold, so cold he should have already been dead; there was a limit to being cold, wasn’t there? One could be cold in winter in one’s own room, if one had not enough to buy wood for the fire; one could be cold in the street and under the rain, dreaming of hot soup or better of a book of magic; one could be cold when Childermass looked right through you and you knew you were just a pawn on his chessboard (a chessboard as vast and complicated as England, and some more). But this cold was unreasonable and painful, and a weight dragging Segundus down, down...

“Hold on,” hallucination-Childermass gritted through his teeth. Whether he meant to hold on to life in general or to himself specifically, it was unclear to Segundus; still, there was something comforting in the delusion of Childermass’s physical presence, a secret warmth he could try to steal, and so he held on to Childermass while Brewer galloped under them both and the whole of Earth turned, unhinged. “I’ll take care of it, Mr Segundus.”

_You should call me John_ , Segundus thought painfully.

At the end of the ride, which passed in a chaos of nausea and fever, plus misspoken words, Lucy was waiting for them. She sounded almost close to tears, but Childermass’s cutting tone cured her of that. When she helped hallucination-Childermass in taking Segundus up the stairs and toward his room, her arms did not tremble and her steps did not falter. It offered a bizarre contrast to the way Childermass seemed to succumb under the weight of Segundus a couple of times.

“Childermass, you’re unwell yourself,” Arabella Strange - that is to say Segundus’s treacherous mind - suggested.

“Too much magic,” Childermass grunted. He did sound tired, but he tightened his hold on Segundus. “I did what I could there, but...too much magic,” he repeated.

His lack of eloquence was the thing which most scared Segundus of all that had been going in his mind; if he could not imagine Childermass being his most eloquent self, Childermass displaying his well-honed mind, then he was losing imagination. And hope.

When they put him on a chair, Lucy’s arms around him to keep him from falling onto the floor, Segundus tried to open his eyes. The voices were good enough, but he was wondering if he could just get a glimpse of what his mind could do in visual terms. The answer was Childermass, soaked-through hallucination-Childermass, kneeling on the floor before him, taking off his boots. He protested against it, against the intimacy of it, and the humiliation of it, though he did not know whether it was he or Childermass who should be humiliated.

“He’s delirious,” Miss Greysteel said numbly, from somewhere in the room.

“He’s not. He’s enchanted,” Lady Pole corrected her. “Can’t you see the _things_ around...”

Segundus was not sure how his mind could really manage so many women at a time, but there they were, _all the women of Starecross_. He should not have thought of them that way and he knew they would be displeased if they knew, but they reminded him of the happiest times of his childhood, when his father and his manservant were away on business, and the house was full of his mother, Cook, and the maid.

“Childermass, you see how it is. You should...” Lady Pole began briskly, but Childermass cut it short.

“I know. _Out._ I want everybody out of here but for Lucy. You can do it Lucy, can’t you?” he asked her quietly.

“I do sir, Mr Childermass. I’d do anything...”

“Good girl,” Childermass said, his voice warm for the first time since Segundus’s hallucination had begun.

“I’ll stay too,” Arabella said.

“I won’t leave,” Lady Pole said almost at the same time.

Childermass muttered a few very ungentlemanly things under his breath, and Segundus felt that it fell to him to reproach Childermass for speaking so before the ladies and for speaking so generally. But he was having trouble breathing, so it was all diluted in the taste of blood coming to his mouth.

“Miss Greysteel, you wait downstairs for the gentlemen to come back. They will need a warm fire and food. At least one woman doing what I say,” Childermass grumbled, when the door closed again. “If you want to stay, you help. We undress him, put him on the bed. Then I...”

“You use the knife,” Lady Pole said in his stead. Childermass gave a grunt.

“How could you think of doing this alone,” Arabella murmured.

Childermass did not answer to that, for his hand was on Segundus’s forehead, and Segundus was on the bed, or at least he thought so, but it might have been the carpet, the floor, the moor itself or the moon, or that chessboard, yes he might have been a piece knocked down on the chessboard, Childermass mourning over the loss of a pawn.

“I’ll keep you safe,” Childermass said, very close to Segundus, so close that for a moment even the magic was smaller than Childermass itself, and Childermass was the entire expanse of Segundus’s nightmare. “John.”

_You should call me Mr Segundus_ , Segundus thought inconsistently.

Then the pain came.


	9. Dream-struck

_January 1 st, 1810_

 

The first time they see each other after - well, _after the day after St. Stephen’s Day_ , for Segundus’s mind cannot describe that day but in the most polite, remote if convoluted terms lest his thoughts wander at most inconvenient times - is the first day of the New Year.

It snows, and Segundus is unhappy.

 

“Mr Segundus, beware!” Miss Jane Honeyfoot cried in delight, as one of Strange’s missiles missed him by a few paces and hit Mr Lascelles’s shoulder instead.

Segundus had thought that the man’s face could not grow any sourer at this point, but his displeasure at becoming the target of the ladies’ discreet mirth and Strange’s half-hearted apologies burnt so bright and scorching that it was a surprise that the snow trapped in the capes of his great coat did not evaporate.

“One must hope that he would have better aim with a ball of fire,” Mr Drawlight commented airily.

“A ball of fire, what a dull spell that would be,” Mr Norrell drawled, while he wrapped himself tighter in his furs.

Although he was thoroughly bored with the pastimes of the day, Mr Norrell had not yet resolved to take his leave from the company. Segundus suspected that he still hoped that there would be time to talk magic with Strange in private later on. This seemed to be the recurring, and possibly only, reason for Mr Norrell to join them, for he did not care for parties, banquets, or dances, let alone walks or carriage rides, but he put up with their entertainments rather than not see his pupil at all during the winter festivities.

Which was, in Segundus’s opinion, a good thing. _The best thing for Jonathan_ , he repeated to himself, generously.

For better or for worse - _but surely, for the better, wasn’t it disloyal to think any differently?_ \- Mr Norrell had taken a liking to Strange. They might argue and their opinions might differ greatly, and sometimes one could not help noticing that Mr Norrell often wore a conflicted look, as if he had caught himself being too lenient with Strange and already regretted it, and yet they got on together better than anyone would have expected. _Anyone_ including Segundus, though he had known from the very start - was he allowed to take pride in it? - that Mr Norrell would have been unable to ignore Jonathan’s talent and morally bound to accept him as his pupil.

Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell were, for lack of better words, _destined_ as the two great magicians of the age, brought together by the mediation of one Mr Segundus and one Mr Honeyfoot. To think that the latter had once timidly, indeed in jest, suggested that the two of them instead - _Segundus & Honeyfoot_, good enough for a store, but for the history of their country? - might be fated to become the two magicians _who shall appear in England_!

That vapid dream had ended very soon with their arrival at Hurtfew Abbey. From then on, Segundus had no longer doubted that Gilbert Norrell possessed not only the required knowledge and better still the method and the means to extend it, but also the desire to be the very magician England had been waiting for (or at least the desire to teach England which kind of magician it should be waiting for, for being _right_ always seemed to play a very important role in Mr Norrell’s actions). Strange, on the other hand, seemed unlikely to ever become a man with a plan; he was _driven_ , yes, but as to _where_ he was driven to it did not appear as evident as in Norrell’s case. _Maybe_ , Segundus’s treacherous mind suggested, _because Jonathan does not have his own Childermass_.

“You are not with us today, my friend,” Jonathan murmured into his ear.

Segundus forced a laugh out of his throat, even if it came out as a nervous cough. Strange had thrown his arm around his shoulders and now they were as close as conspirators, their breath turning into mist as soon as it passed their reddened lips. Segundus felt that such a scene, and such familiarity, belonged to his school days rather than to the present time; it belonged to the friendships he had formed then, as a young and fearful student - few connections in truth, but often mingled with an aching of the heart and of the body which had either drawn the boys closer or asunder.

Jonathan was clearly oblivious in that regard, for he would not have been so affectionate and open in his liking for Segundus if he had known how his behaviour affected his friend. _For he would not hurt me if only he knew how much I value our friendship_ , Segundus told himself, _but neither would he hold me in contempt_. It might be that he was being naïve about Strange, overestimating his kindness and his ability for a greater understanding of human beings, and yet more than once, over the past few days, Segundus had felt tempted to confess. Namely telling Strange of his reproachable conduct concerning Mr Norrell’s manservant.  

“I’m truly sorry, I do not mean to ruin anyone’s mood,” Segundus sighed, discreetly freeing himself from the hold.

Strange frowned and took a long glance at his face, while the others walked past them to better admire some of the most fashionable carriages driving slowly through the snow. Lascelles was instructing the ladies about the best qualities to be looked for in a horse, while his friend Drawlight was trying to recall some amusing anecdote of last year ( _amusing_ being his own description of it, for the Stranges, the Honeyfoots, and Mr Norrell himself often failed to get the joke, even if many people of the _beau monde_ had confirmed that Christopher Drawlight was the very spirit of drollness, and delightfully informed on what was happening beneath some of the best roofs of London).  

“You’re loath to leave us,” Strange stated, after his perusal of Segundus’s face.

“Yes, I am. You’ve been very kind to me. Your wife…”

“Oh pray, do not praise her again. You’d have convinced me of my luck a hundred times, hadn’t I been already convinced. And I’d worry, if you were not the friend you are to me.” It was said in jest, yes, but with an edge to it that threatened to undo Segundus - _how could Jonathan think…!_

“I admire Mrs Strange above all women,” Segundus said in earnest.

“Don’t we all?” Strange sighed, but his eyes suddenly sought her among the other ladies: Mrs Honeyfoot and her daughters, and a couple of Parliament wives who had joined them on their walk through the snow-clad Hyde Park.

Arabella was not the fairest, not even the most elegant of the women there that morning, walking under the soft fall of snow with their arms linked; many exceeded her in beauty, accomplishments, grace. Still there was some power about her, and it might be that it was the comparison with her husband that made it more evident, for in that they were as different as the moon from the sun, and her power lay in reserve rather than action. _Would that I had her calmness_ , Segundus thought, because his gaze had followed Strange’s to find her dear face and that little frown ( _indeed she is a little short-sighted, no matter how she denies it_ ) that Jonathan seemed to adore more than her smiles _._ Not for the first time Segundus hoped that he could learn how to smile, and laugh, and love the people around him without losing anything of himself.

Arabella could do that, love without tarnish.

He, on the other hand, felt that any bout of affection left him breathless and guilty, his soul uncomfortably stretched to hide the red, red flesh of his secret - what a cruel punishment for a man who abhorred secrets to harbour such a monstrous mystery his entire life! And if he had found some balance over the years, a kind of compromise between his desire for honesty and his _desire_ , it felt thinner and endangered nowadays. Not that Segundus regretted what had happened on the day after St. Stephen’s Day, because he was too fair to regret something he had freely chosen, and - _God help me_ \- wanted; nor would he blame Mr Childermass when he had invited his attentions in the first place.

Yet if the thought of what had passed between them prompted his remorse for the deception which had surrounded the act, the sight of Childermass made him as nervous as a schoolboy before a caning. He did not presume to know when the first blow would fall, but it would surely fall, and he already flinched from the pain and the shame to come.

The very appearance of Childermass that morning, at Norrell’s side, after a few days of absence from London owing to some errand (a copy of Watershippe’s _A Faire Wood Withering_ sporting 15 th century hand-written notes, Mr Norrell had explained, but would one ever know what Childermass was after?[1]), had spooked Segundus not less than the kind of dreams he had been dreaming. And if Segundus had always felt quite understanding toward his own dreams - for they did not harm anyone, and they were his alone - he had grown more guarded since that time when he had fallen into Strange’s dream.

Magic was making the boundaries between dreams thinner, and he might have been pushing his luck, allowing himself to dream of Mr Childermass just under Strange’s roof. It was true that they (mostly) talked of magic in such dreams; it was also true that Mr Segundus’s body found that as exciting as other, less innocent, details of his reveries. A couple of those were particularly surprising, since Segundus would have never thought of those awake, and he could not remember to have ever learnt certain - well, certain _ways_ between men. He had even suspected Mr Childermass of meddling with his dreams, but the man had been out of the city for days, and imagining that his magic could get to Segundus from so far away was equal parts fascinating and frightening.  

Now Childermass was there, and looked quite like a crow, a dark tear in the white cape of snow thrown over London. His function would have been unclear to an onlooker, for he was too supercilious for a servant and too grim for a gentleman; but he tended to Norrell’s wishes with his customary efficiency - no, there was nothing amiss between them, not an ounce of exasperation on Childermass’s part at leaving his master to play the magician with Jonathan Strange, while the great Mr Norrell would not even glance back at his faithful Childermass, who was a magician himself.

_How can they play such a game?_ Segundus wondered, feeling that he was kept out of it.

What _it_ was he did not know, but there was something brewing between those three men, a new England, the revival of magic, so much knowledge and power to make a poor scholar feel giddy at the very thought of how much was in so few hands ( _which may be what the course of history is about most of the time_ , _and still..._ ). Whereas Norrell and Strange were under everybody’s scrutiny, there stood John Childermass, his actions and his desires drenched with shadows.

And Segundus did not belong, not to the blinding light of the increasing fame surrounding Mr Norrell and Jonathan, not to the…

“I feared I would never get any chance to talk with you alone,” Arabella confessed in a rush, as soon as they found themselves walking side by side.

There had been some talking of the journey ahead with Mr Honeyfoot and a few literary rumours offered by Miss Honeyfoot, both conversation which had not required Segundus to abandon the flow of his thoughts. He shook himself out of them now, as Arabella kept talking - maybe because she would have been silent if she had had to think twice about what she was telling him.

“She did not refuse to meet you, you see. She was not overeager either, that it’s true, but I think that she’d have agreed in the end. Only her husband - he’s not a bad man I suppose, I know Jonathan thinks very highly of him as a gentleman, though their political views…but it doesn’t matter. In any case, Sir Walter - oh, I don’t like talking to you like this, Mr Segundus, sharing with you the intricacies of other people’s lives and affections. You’re a kind man, I trust your discretion, and I know that you wouldn’t judge them or any other human being without good cause, still a marriage is a delicate thing and I feel that I cannot force his hand without putting myself between a husband and his wife…”

“Mrs Strange, I must ask you this at least…” Segundus gently interrupted her. “I’m sure you have given thought to it as well, but are you quite sure that your friend’s discomfort cannot be explained in the light of her marriage rather than her…you must pardon me, her _originality_?”

“Oh, I wondered,” Arabella sighed. “It was, in truth, the first thing I thought of. I did not find any fault in Sir Walter though, except for being so very keen on keeping her from ridicule - and himself with her. But I cannot blame him for that, it would make things worse for sure if she…you know, us women are subjected to stricter rules, wherever we go, and we’re not easily forgiven any carelessness. But in protecting her he may also isolate her.”

“Has he any reason to do so?”

“I think she had a sort of crisis at Christmas, she broke something in the house and scared a maid. So he thinks that she needs only rest, no strong emotions, and he doesn’t want people to call at Harley Street. Not as a gaoler, you see, as a loving husband,” Segundus saw her blushing slightly for what she had implied for the briefest moment. “So he won’t have you visit her at home, and she won’t walk past the door until the doctors agree that she’s better. Now that you and the Honeyfoots are leaving, we have missed our chance!”

“Yet you seem to think that she has all the help she might hope for: her husband, good doctors, and…”

“If you had met her, you would know why I feel like I feel about her,” Arabella interrupted him. She was not annoyed, but her voice had taken a firmer quality, a sure sign that she would not yield on this point.

“Then I regret that I cannot be of any service this time.”

“If he relented, if she needed to talk to someone…would you come?”

“At your summons, you mean?” Segundus asked, more than a little surprised.

It was one thing to call on this Lady Pole while he was in London, quite another to travel South at Mrs Strange’s bidding to talk with a woman he had never seen before in his life, when her husband himself had clearly refused to welcome him into his house - that being the gentleman’s prerogative in any case.

“Later in spring, you could come visit us,” Arabella amended, “it will be my first season too. Oh, I find it quite ridiculous at my age, but I suppose that I shall have a kind of debut. I do not care for it,” she admitted frankly, “but Jonathan needs me to be out there, at his side. Being a magician is apparently more complicated than doing magic: there’s a tribute to pay to our betters. You must have heard Mr Norrell’s friends talking of nothing but politics, politics, and fashion.”

“I am afraid magic has always been also about politics, Mrs Strange.”

“Yes, the King of the North… _King_ wasn’t just a figure of speech.”

“Hardly so,” Segundus nodded, but he could not keep himself from shivering.

It did not seem right to talk of the Raven King so far from the North; there was no place in London and in modern magic for him, didn’t Mr Norrell say so himself? As for Jonathan, he kept his silence on this subject, though one could see that he was not overly pleased with his teacher’s stance.

“Will you think about it at least?” Mrs Strange asked him.

He nodded again. If he came back in spring, he would see Jonathan again, and maybe they would talk of the dreams of Tsars, of spells for opening new navigable channels, and of mirrors - for mirrors would always hold a special fascination for Jonathan. And if he came back in spring, he would probably see Childermass again.

_If you still wish it tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after, until you are back in the North._

What was that? A challenge, a test he had to pass? _Yes, I wish it, and it makes me ashamed._

Not for the man, not even for the man being a man (there would always be shame there, but he had learnt how to keep that at bay, how to be gentler with himself and his own desires); but shame for the secretiveness of it, and for the sharpness of the craving Childermass had kindled in him. He was starved for affection, he knew that, and he would seek those attentions, despite the fact that he had no idea what Childermass was _thinking_ \- _thinking_ , yes, it would have been enough to have an inkling to the man’s thoughts, let alone his feelings. People starving are likely to take what they are offered, and it was the wrong way to go about such things, such _dealings_ , as Childermass liked to call them.

Of that Segundus was ashamed. Of his lack of levity, his lack of experience, his lack of reserve.

“But yes, naturally I will think of it,” he answered to Mrs Strange, his heart heavy. And his eyes seeking, against his will, Childermass. Who - _not surprisingly_ \- was at Mr Norrell’s side.

_What a man I am!_ , Segundus told himself reproachfully, when he realised that he was doing exactly what he had done on Christmas Eve: he had let himself be charmed by Jonathan’s ways, then strived to unburden his conscience and show his ( _devious_!) loyalty to Arabella, and now he was thinking of Childermass. As if he had not enough chances to make a fool of himself! At least he had understood, with a clarity which had been as sudden as it was bitter - that Strange would always remain the man into whose dreams he had walked, and of a dream he would always retain the unattainable, elusive quality.

Childermass, on the other hand, was very much real and had proved himself quite different from what he had expected. He would have found himself at a loss to describe _how_ different Childermass was from his assumptions, but it had been enough to leave him thinking about Childermass for hours at a time. _Hours_. Reliving their encounter in every detail, dissecting their words and gestures, trying to discover what had happened and who Childermass was after all. And the _magic_ of the man, how much time he had devoted just to the purpose of remembering how it had felt when he was performing Belasis’s Scopus!

The more he thought of Childermass’s magic, the more he thought of the smell of his skin when he had leant over him, his face and his neck so close, his mouth still red from their kissing. The sound of his breath, and his Northern accent, at the same time so harsh and so exquisite, just like the touch of his fingers. But also his mocking ways, his obstinacy, the way he talked about certain things, and also how he had left after what had passed between them, his curt, efficient motions. Not a gentleman, no, but a man, and a magician. Segundus felt that he was ill-equipped to deal with either.

_If you still wish it_. Childermass had not written a single line since then. He had greeted Segundus that morning the way he had greeted Mr Honeyfoot - politely, enquiring about their health and their enjoyment of London. If there had been any _double-entendre_ there, Segundus had been unable to come up with the correct response, since the man had soon left him and Honeyfoot, to apply himself to what he did best - _watching_. Oh yes, Childermass had certainly been looking at him, just as he had been looking at anyone else in the party, cataloguing their reactions and their expressions of joy at the sight of the soft veil of snow which had turned Hyde Park into a dream of white and pearl, under a grey-pink sky. Indeed it was as if they were walking through a dream, so soundless were their steps and the carriages’ passage; even the voices and the children’s cries were muffled, and London - grey, grim, greedy London - was pushed farther away.

Henry Lascelles, on the other hand, had just approached him now that Arabella had been called to judge on the propriety of an unmarried lady to read Mr Lewis’s _Monk_. Miss Honeyfoot was arguing that since the scandalous novelty of the book had already worn off, young ladies should not be kept from reading something which had already been surpassed by newer and more outrageous novels.

“I gather that you’re leaving us tomorrow, Mr Cupid,” Mr Lascelles began, glancing at him sideways.

“Sir, I’m not sure…” Segundus started, surprised at being called - _Cupid?_ Had he caught it right?

“Aren’t you the _matchmaker_ of the most fortunate meeting English magic has ever seen for centuries?” the other continued, this time displaying a thin, thin smile, cutting his face into two parts - the one smiling and pleasant, the other as cold as the ice covering the Serpentine. “I have been told that our dear Mr Strange wouldn’t have found his way to Mr Norrell, if you had not suggested it in the first place.”

“Mr Honeyfoot and I...” Segundus commenced, feeling that once again he was being called to answer for an influence on the recent events that he had never thought to claim. Yes, in truth Honeyfoot and he had been the first ones to talk of Mr Norrell to Mr Strange, but this did not mean that one could go around calling him _Cupid_. Indeed, it was preposterous, and Segundus opened his mouth, for he felt affronted and…

“I do wonder what was in it for you, Mr Segundus,” Mr Lascelles murmured, smiling to himself.

“Apart from helping a friend?”

“You make friends very quickly then. I was told that you had just met Mr Strange at the time.”

“Kindred spirits…” Segundus mumbled, hoping that someone would spare him Mr Lascelles’s inquisitive tones.

“Mr Strange is a marvellous man,” Lascelles declared. “For he appears to find _kindred spirits_ wherever he goes. I admire how deftly he has captured Mr Norrell’s attention. They have become quite inseparable, as the most natural consequence of what they share I suppose - the new English magic. I find it very touching, the way Mr Norrell is enamoured with your friend’s wits and spells. Your intuition in that regard does your credit.”

“Are you an aspiring magician, sir?” Segundus asked, though he knew very well that it was not so.

Mr Lascelles and Mr Drawlight were admitted to the house in Hanover Square in some capacity - friends, or _allies_ more likely, for they did not strike Segundus as the kind of people who cultivated friendship - but neither of them had ever been Mr Norrell’s pupil. And if Drawlight did not seem to have the brain for it, Mr Lascelles… _does he have the moral principles for it?_ Segundus wondered.

He was not sure about what Mr Lascelles wanted from Mr Norrell, for he did look annoyed when his opinions on magical matters were naturally and reasonably overlooked by the others, and yet Segundus had never caught him at trying his hand at practical magic. Nonetheless, he had guessed that the question would annoy the gentleman, who seemed to find his pleasure in being nothing in particular and doing nothing in particular, apart from being well-known, well-regarded, and very fashionable. Skills that, Segundus knew, identified the best of gentlemen.

“Are _you_?” Lascelles asked in turn, throwing him a scorching look. Then, without waiting for an answer, he added: “Mr Norrell would be lost without us. Drawlight and I are his _chaperons_ ; you must not think that magic could get him anywhere without the right introductions. I admire Mr Norrell greatly, but a great man, even a great magician, needs someone to _see_ his greatness. And to show it to others.”

“Magic has always been about politics,” Segundus agreed for the second time in a short while.

Lascelles looked pleased with his reply this time. He wetted his lips, then spoke again.

“Poor beggar, that Childermass.” Segundus hoped that Lascelles had not noticed his little start at hearing Childermass’s name suddenly feature in their conversation. “I suppose that he had almost become a kind of _confidante_ for Mr Norrell in the solitude of those moors of yours. I do understand that the quantity of light and entertainments in the North is so meagre that a gentleman can turn to his inferiors for want of company.”

Segundus bit his tongue to keep himself from asking Mr Lascelles whether he, John Segundus, figured in such a vision as a gentleman or an inferior compared to Mr Norrell’s station.

“Even Romans when found themselves among the Barbarian tribes, far from the civilised world, could not help mingling with them.”

_But we have more Barbarian than Roman blood in all our veins!_ Segundus would have liked to protest, whether it was historically true or not - the point was that all that talking of civilisations made him wish that he could aim a shamelessly barbaric punch at Lascelles’s pale, freckled face - an extraordinary and rare feeling which fluttered in Segundus’s usually non-violent chest.  

“Of course it’s all finished now,” Lascelles gave an almost imperceptible shrug. “Mr Norrell delights in Mr Strange’s company, it’s under everybody’s eye. As for Drawlight and me, it doesn’t change anything, for Mr Norrell is not a gentleman to overlook loyalty and true qualities. Childermass, on the other hand, has fallen back from confidante to servant; it’s in the nature of things indeed that he should return to his former, and congenial, position. Mr Norrell, being as generous as one could wish him to be, is being very gracious about it; he keeps sending him on errands and tolerating his presence in the drawing room and the library with us gentlemen.”

“I’m sure Mr Norrell thinks very highly of Mr Childermass,” Segundus replied, a little coldly.

“Yes, surely the man must have qualities of a kind…” Lascelles affected a dry chuckle. “Hard to see in my opinion, but I do pity him. He must have nothing to do with himself now that Mr Strange has taken his rightful place at Mr Norrell’s side.”

“Your concern for Mr Childermass does your credit, Mr Lascelles.”

“Does it? Oh, but I’m interested in the man. You see, I tend to get interested in men who slander me. Do not look so surprised, Mr Segundus: by now you should be acquainted with our little circle of friends well enough to know that Childermass dislikes whoever comes near Mr Norrell. I’m sure that sooner or later he’ll turn his sharp tongue against Mr Strange, but for the time being Childermass contents himself with criticising Mr Drawlight and me. If he was a gentleman I’d have already taken my satisfaction,” he said lazily, playing with the golden buttons of his overcoat, “but one never gets any credit for mixing with the servants.”

By then Segundus had grown afraid - was he being warned, threatened, or corrupted? He was sure that he had not given Mr Lascelles reason to take any interest in him, but he was not as confident that the gentleman had no suspicion about him. What if Childermass had been incautious? What if - more likely - he had been the one making his thoughts too transparent? He risked a look at Mr Lascelles’s face, and wondered what he knew of the man: Jonathan had dismissed him as a vain man, but it was one of Jonathan’s bad habits to see in the others the flaws he would not recognise in himself. Segundus thought that he was very ambitious, but as to where his ambition should lead he was not sure. Mr Lascelles had never really sought him before: this was the first real conversation between the two of them, and Segundus could tell that it was not going very well[2].

“Have you ever been in York, Mr Lascelles?” he asked, as cheerfully as possible, hoping to divert the man’s attention toward a different, and far less perilous, topic. “You’d find that it’s a fascinating place, especially if you have any interest in the history of magic.”

“I heard that it had its society of magicians, if they could call themselves that.”

“Well, I was a member of the Learned Society,” Segundus replied, trying not to feel too irked - had he not been the one to question their right to call themselves magicians when they did no magic at all?

“Until Mr Norrell put an end to that. Thank Heaven.”

“Surely the society in York had very backward ways, and challenging Mr Norrell was their own choice, but I’m sure that in the future there will be space for many more of such societies for magicians, for we need some kind of partnership to ensure the best conditions for the growth of magic in England. The education of young magicians, for instance, would…”

“The educations of young magicians?” Mr Lascelles repeated, a smile spreading on his lips.

“It’s a special concern of mine: I believe everyone may have a right to magic, but a formal education should then be provided,” Segundus mumbled, hoping that the colour was not rising to high in his cheeks. He did not feel ashamed, but he had just realised that he had not talked so openly about it to anyone before - well, there was so much to be said about magic nowadays that his own hopes paled in comparison. He had just never felt that it was so very important to bother Jonathan or anyone else with his ideas about schools of magicians, levels of educations, textbooks, and so on.

Now it felt wrong to have confessed such a thing to Lascelles.   

“A most respectable and optimistic endeavour, Mr Segundus,” the man said. “Raising young minds to the depth of magical knowledge, creating a new generation of gentlemen magicians…there’s poetry in that. But you’d need support. I imagine you already have someone in mind.”

“In mind? Oh no, Mr Lascelles, you have misunderstood me,” he protested. “It’s nothing like that, not a plan, you see, I haven’t really thought of anything. I wouldn’t know where to start, and one needs more than a wish to do some good to our fellow magicians. Besides my own knowledge cannot compare…”

“But if you ever found yourself in need of advice…I’m sure I could do something for you,” Mr Lascelles said, with a gentleness slightly marred by the look of condescension he wore. “I could intercede for you with Mr Norrell, and let him see the advantages of endorsing your idea of a school for magicians.”

“I don’t think I would bother Mr Norrell when I haven’t thought of anything like a school for magicians. My concern is very generic, Mr Lascelles,” Segundus replied.

_I don’t care for Mr Norrell’s support_ , he told himself, _and I don’t need it_. Jonathan, obviously Jonathan would be told if the thing ever came to see the light of day.

“Oh, it’s in your hands,” Mr Lascelles conceded, rebuffed.

And Childermass, it would be nice to know his opinion and his advice would…

_If you still wish it_ : the answer had felt so simple a few days ago. Suddenly, as their walk drew to a close, and Strange had just agreed to accompany Mr Norrell to Hanover Square while his wife and his friends returned home, Segundus realised that he had never been so lost as he was now - now that he was no magician in a world to which magic was being returned, now that his ambitions and his desires burnt brighter, now that John Childermass was looking at him. Indeed, as he was opening the door of the carriage for Mr Norrell, Childermass finally looked at him as if it meant something: there was no smile, no gesture, not even a mute word between them, and still their eyes met. Segundus felt it, heavy against his chest, the question that was not a question: _if you still wish it_.

 

*

 

_August 23 rd, 1810_

 

Childermass’s pace was slow, his head bare, his boots barely sinking into the soft, soft snow; and snow was falling from the dark sky, too, miniature flakes catching the light of the forest like stardust or fireflies burning among the high trees. Their branches showed faces and limbs, but sometimes they were ravens and they flew away as soon as Segundus’s eyes found them. If Segundus had not known from the very start that he was dreaming, the light would have given the dream away, for it was an impossible luminescence, a silver-green glow showing him the way to reach Childermass under the jet-black night sky.

On the other hand, Childermass’s semblance would have easily deceived anyone, since his dark clothes looked exactly how they had always looked: tidy and not a bad fit for the man, still quite worn and with every appearance of having been bought a long time ago and then largely exposed to the weather and the accidents of life, washed and mended countless times.

“I wonder, Mr Childermass,” Segundus said, as soon as the man was close (though he suspected that in dreams distances did not matter so much), “if it is you who is unable to think of himself in better clothes or I am.”

“Good evening sir,” Childermass replied, raising an eyebrow as if to suggest that he was mildly amused by Segundus’s lack of dream-manners.

“ _Night_ actually, I believe it is the dead of the night, because I have stayed up very late to examine my accounts. That is if I’ve not been transported anywhere and if it’s still the night between the - let’s see - the 23 rd and the 24th of August,” Segundus murmured.

He sensed the undercurrent of Childermass’s magic, not as clearly as he had done in London when he had been shewn Belasis’s Scopus, but more like a curious tickling under his palms and the soles of his feet, and also in the blackness of the sky. The snow itself appeared to be made of Childermass’s magic, but so diluted that it was not very different from any snow, except for the fact that it did not feel so cold to the touch.

As a matter of fact, Segundus noticed when he brushed a flake from his cheek, it felt slightly warm, _sleep-warm_.

“You are still asleep in your bed.”

“And you’re in a bed as well?” Segundus asked.

“Ain’t so young anymore that I can spend all my nights sleeping on the ground, sir,” came the quick reply, with the hint of a smile in the timbre of Childermass’s voice. His accent seemed thicker, like that time, in London, when he had been whispering obscenities into Segundus’s ear.

“I mean to ascertain beyond any doubt whether it’s me dreaming of you or you’re _here_ the way I’m here. For we’re here somehow, right? That’s why you sent me the lavender and the raven feather. And what else in the pouch you warned me not to open?”  

“Sand, shells, and other herbs. I wasn’t sure it would work, for to my knowledge it has never been tried this way for two centuries. You must be acquainted with Strange’s experiments in this field and Mr Norrell’s before him, but they both worked on sending dreams and nightmares to emperors and tsars, none of whom was a willing accomplice, rather than inviting a man to share a dream. Though it was how you met Jonathan Strange, so I suppose that he does have some experience of this as well.”

“Oh, you know,” Segundus commented, a little dumbfounded.

“How would I not? Strange is a born storyteller who loves to tell about his beginnings as a magician, and that’s a good story.”

Segundus blushed furiously. Indeed, he had heard Jonathan recount their first meeting at the Shadow House and he had seen how he had been clearly pleased with the effect that such a thrilling narrative had had on his guests, but Segundus felt that his friend might have been less eager to turn him into something of a character, entertaining and agreeable as well as secondary. So he felt annoyed and even more so since he suspected that Childermass had spoken of it for the very purpose of vexing him.

And probably for the same reason - to more clearly observe the results of his words - Childermass stepped forward. Segundus stepped back on instinct, his hands coming to pull his nightshirt tighter around his body.

“Oh, but I am wearing…” he said, a little startled at the distant feeling of frayed wool under his fingers. “Why are you dreaming me in my nightshirt? Unless it’s me dreaming you, since how would you know...” Segundus started, colouring slightly at the idea.

There was still no reason for Childermass to be aware of how old and poor his nightshirt was, and how dear it was to him during the long winter nights. The other man made a face, a hint of dissatisfaction, though it went as quickly as it had come, and his tone was serene when he spoke:

“The spell has not turned out as I wished.”

“What did you wish for?” Segundus asked, then cleared his throat when Childermass threw him a black glance, something of a sarcastic warning for such careless enquiries about John Childermass’s wishes. “It must have taken you time to devise the spell…” Segundus added timidly.

“It has taken me several months. Taking care of Mr Norrell’s business does not leave me much time for my own endeavours,” he explained matter-of-factly. “Besides, what I had in mind differed from my master’s and Strange’s experiences with dreams. And I am not sure that Strange knows more than I do about how you walked into his dream that day. I suspect that the Shadow House contributed to what happened and I could not hope to recreate such circumstances.”

“Yes, I’m afraid Mrs Pleasance’s rooms are most adverse to magic,” Segundus sighed, thinking again of the broken pipes he still produced from time to time, when he felt especially obstinate.

“Besides, I feared that you’d take very ill to my attempt to enter your dreams uninvited.”

“I would have taken offence, a gentleman’s dreams are his own,” Segundus said, his voice growing a little petulant despite himself. Indeed he felt that he was at fault in this regard: what scenes would have welcomed Childermass if he had boldly stepped in the midst of one of Segundus’s most private dreams! It was very well that Segundus was wearing a nightshirt, which was very respectable compared to other attires - or lack of them - which he could have displayed otherwise.

“I don’t doubt your ability to take offence, sir,” Childermass said, the corners of his mouth rising ever so slightly. “Furthermore I share your reluctance in sharing one’s dreams lightly, especially when magic is involved. For this reason I attempted to create a dream which would be neither yours or mine; a crossroad between your sleep and mine, where we could meet without wandering into each other’s dreams.”

“Oh, so this is why it looks so…”

“So _inconsistent_?” Childermass suggested, looking around him with the air of an architect whose design has been greatly misconceived by the builders and now finds himself with an entirely different, and overly bizarre, house. Except that the forest seemed to have no end; not that they were moving, but Segundus was sure that they could walk in any direction and found the very same trees and the very same sky. “The spell works two ways, as you may have guessed by now: I put the feather and the lavender under my pillow as well, hoping that my instructions would be clear enough.”

_And that I would follow them_ , Segundus thought.

“And that you would follow them,” Childermass said slowly. “I think that dreaming together makes your thoughts easier to read.”

Segundus opened his mouth, then closed it again. At last he spoke since not sharing his thoughts did not seem an option right now.

“Well, it must be that you’re too well-versed in the arts of investigating a gentleman’s thoughts, since I do not find that yours are more transparent than usual, that is to say nothing at all. I suppose my lack of magical skills puts me at a disadvantage,” Segundus said, turning his gaze away.

“I’ve had a long experience of hiding my thoughts,” Childermass murmured. Segundus found that he sounded rather pleased with his achievements in the field of breeding mysteries, but said nothing - oh, let the man peruse his thoughts at his pleasure if he wanted to! “And I will refrain from perceiving yours, if it so displeases you,” Childermass promised, maybe because he had just caught the combative turn of Segundus’s inner voice, and was kind enough not to sound too annoyed at Segundus’s penchant for keeping his thoughts to himself once in a while. “Only the dream…you feel different in it. Do I feel different to you?”

Segundus raised his eyes again and saw that Childermass was looking at him, curious but also…guarded, as if he did not dare doing too much without knowing how it would affect the both of them first.

“Your magic does. It is less sharp, more diffused. It’s part of the forest and the snow, even the sky feels part of it…anyway, the forest is, well, yours? I don’t think I’d be dreaming of a forest tonight.”

“I’m in Perthshire.” Childermass gave the information with his customary curtness. He relented a little though: “I have spent three bloody hours among bloody identical trees,” he complained with a grimace.

Segundus could not help a chuckle, which seemed to slightly surprise Childermass despite the fact that he had probably talked that way for the very purpose of amusing Segundus - it might be that Childermass never trusted others to share his dry humour, and doubted his ability to be amusing to anyone except himself. He looked very still for a moment, then leant in, one hand brushing snowflakes from the sleeve of Segundus’s nightshirt.   

“It’s all over you,” Childermass said bluntly, looking at him. “I can feel my magic upon you.”

Segundus felt a light shiver running up his spine. He looked at Childermass’s hand, then at his face.

“How does it feel? Your magic upon me?”

“Mostly you smell of lavender,” Childermass replied, then grinned at Segundus’s stunned expression. He had taken his hand away, and Segundus feared that they had just missed something - _if only he had touched me then…_

“The lavender under my pillow,” Segundus understood, nodding. “But the snow? It might be me, looking for some relief from the hot weather of August. These rooms are quite comfortable you know, but being just under the roof they grow very cold in winter and very hot in summer. I confess that I used my poor notes as a fan before going to bed and then I have divested myself of…” he trailed off, for Childermass’s gaze had become so heavy that he suddenly realised that he had been on the verge of saying that - while in the dream he was in his largely respectable nightshirt - in Lady Peckett’s Yard he was half-naked, sweating in his bed...

“It might be me. I was thinking of the last time I saw you on New Year. I take it that you did not wish it, after all.”

Segundus blinked, then he lowered his gaze. He could have told Childermass about how dull the last months had been, never leaving York, constantly worried about his dwindling funds - at least Mr Honeyfoot had helped him find a few pupils, all merchants’ sons who needed some refinements to hope in a future rise among their betters. He also wrote business letters and documents for some of his neighbours, and elegant cards for the gentlemen who wanted a sophisticated handwriting for their love letters or their wishes to rich aunts - they did not know any better: if only they had seen how much more graceful and handsome Childermass’s handwriting was!

And how often had Segundus taken those letters out from the drawer to reread them or just to observe the flow of the writing over the paper. Still, he owed Childermass a kind of answer.

“I meant to let you have news of me, only I wasn’t…you see, that day…”

“Lascelles spoke to you,” Childermass cut in. His voice had suddenly become sharper, though still low. “I saw him approaching you, I saw your face. What did he tell you? Did he threaten you in some way?”

“No, he only…” he struggled to find words which would describe Mr Lascelles’s tone without letting Childermass know how subtly humiliating that conversation had been, “he shared his opinion concerning Mr Norrell’s rise in the world and Mr Strange’s enviable position as his pupil.”

“He also spoke about me.”

“You said you wouldn’t look at my thoughts!”

“I’m not. It’s on your face, you’ve got a very expressive sort of face.”

“I don’t believe I’m dreaming my face telling you what I don’t want to tell you,” Segundus protested when he caught the vague reproach in Childermass’s words (as if he was responsible for the way his face displayed the current of his thoughts and feelings!). Segundus clenched his hands at his sides like he used to do when he was a child and wanted to keep his emotions to himself, most of the times failing miserably. And, exactly like it often did then, his anger deflated in the blink of an eye, turning from Childermass to himself. “I suppose there must be a great demand for Mr Norrell’s attention now that you live in London and he’s so well-known and sought after. You must find it very different from what it was at Hurtfew.”

“It is.”

Again, that blank face that showed nothing. Segundus pushed his fists into the pockets of his nightshirt.

“I could have written. But you could have written as well,” he pointed out.

“I told you I’d wait.”

“This is not waiting.”

Childermass tilted his head, as if he wanted to pretend to be embarrassed. He was not though.

“I’m not used to being…inactive, sir.”  

“Your card did not say much except _do this, do that, put all under the pillow_. You did not write that you were going to enchant me.”

“And what did you think I was doing?” Childermass asked, an ironic glint in his eyes.

“Well, at least you could have tried to be more persuasive.”

“You didn’t need persuasion,” Childermass grunted. “You needed to be given the opportunity of trying a new spell and taste its magic.”

“Is it wise to experience what you cannot have?” Segundus wondered aloud, eyes on the thick darkness of the sky, weaved from the silk of who knew how many nights of Childermass’s experience.

For he was sure that there were not such skies in his imagination, not this vast expanse of blackness, rough and soft in places like an old coat, and still full of pockets and secrets. He could not keep himself from smiling then, because he had suddenly realised where the sky might have come from after all: it might be but a more dangerous, far-reaching version of Childermass’s own coat, and in the dream they were hiding under it, like children playing under the clothed table or inside their parents’ wardrobe.

Childermass was observing him, unsmiling, but with a softness in his gaze that made Segundus wonder if it was the dreaming that had left it there; if they were both feeling more sentimental from it, and less prone to the usual worries. He, at least, felt that his fears were made duller by the bizarre beauty of the dream, by the translucent quality of the landscape, by the impossible smell of tobacco coming from Childermass’s clothes.

“Did you smoke before going to bed?”

“Yes, I did,” Childermass replied, frowning. “You see, I didn’t mean to meet you in a forest. I had had enough of trees, but apparently certain parts of the spell aren’t good enough yet.”

“Oh, but this is a wonderful achievement!” Segundus protested, despite the fact that the man had not been exactly venting his disappointment - _but when does Childermass ever vent anything at all?_ And he could enjoy looking at Segundus as if his reaction was unasked for and his support completely useless, but Segundus’s rightful admiration would not be curbed by Childermass’s sourness. “If only they knew what you could do…if you’d let them see the magician you’re becoming. I do feel a little light-headed right now, from the magic I mean, but you must believe that I’m a fairly good judge of spells by now, and this…this has been unheard of for so long, Childermass. This you were not taught, this is your own creation.”

“It could have come out worse,” Childermass muttered, his lips tight but a light in his dark eyes. “But also better.”

“You’ll work on it. And then you might want to put the spell into practice to assess the results of your improvements  - that is if you don’t mind using me so…”

“Will you not mind being the subject of my trials and errors?”

“I should, I suppose,” Segundus sighed. “There must be dangers in dreaming by magic…” he continued, though he failed to sound as worried as he should have been in the face of such a possibility. “Besides, one can never know what you may invent for me next time, after a forest at the dead of the night. At least it isn’t freezing at all, and I don’t have to worry about waking up with a cold - or should I?”

“I don’t think so, but I am sure that you will send me your polite complaints if you sneeze three times in a row at breakfast,” Childermass shot him an amused look. “I’d try to dream of a room next time.”

“A room?”

“A bed in it would be most congenial. But any other surface would suffice.”

“ _Any other surface_!” Segundus repeated, choking a little at the smug look on Childermass’s face.

“In dreams we might hope to be less concerned with back pains,” Childermass noted dutifully.

“You’re imagining to…”

“To have you bared from head to toe, and your thighs…”

Segundus’s mouth fell open, but he immediately realised how undignified such an expression was, so he rather covered his ears with his hands. Only to discover, though, that the trick did not work so well in dreams and he was still hearing Childermass’s musings about the incredible amount of skin that should be exposed in the next reverie he could design - a subject Childermass had indulged in in Strange’s house as well, but then he had whispered his arguments and not proclaimed them aloud as if they were an indifferent part of some formal prattle. If it had been torture then, this was very unkind, this throwing such provocative words at Segundus’s feet and expecting him to bear them.   

“You’re depicting me like a tart!” Segundus lamented, feeling that not only his cheeks but also the roots of his hair must be red by now. Childermass raised his hand to restrain him from further speaking.

“I can assure you that it would be me using a tart’s tricks upon you.”

There must be a limit to a man’s blush, Segundus thought hazily, at least for his blood circulation’s sake. In truth he was not sure what classified as _a tart’s trick_ , but he believed it to be very filthy and obscurely pleasurable. If his ignorance showed on his face, Childermass was prompted by it to some gentleness.

“But it’s not my dream after all,” he murmured, doing Segundus the courtesy of moving closer. Although he did not make to touch him, his physical proximity acted as a magnetic pole, and his quiet voice seemed to wrap around Segundus’s fluttering heart, like firm, gentle fingers holding a nervous bird. “You must have me like you want.”

“I don’t, I don’t know…” Segundus mumbled, though his hands were already travelling up Childermass’s arms. It did not feel real, except as real as in a dream: it was there, but more in Segundus’s own memory than under his fingers. Something was amiss, not warmth or shape, but it was like touching Childermass through water, as if every sensations moved slower from Segundus’s fingers to his mind and to his blood than it would do in reality. And still Childermass’s eyes were so unbearably dark. “I cannot say it aloud,” Segundus confessed in a breath. His fingers had just brushed against the stubble covering Childermass’s cheeks.

“If you cannot talk about such things, not even in a dream, I’ll show you.”

Childermass’s hand pressed against his hip, his thumb catching in the belt keeping the nightshirt closed.

“Like a tart?” Segundus could not help the biting note in his voice.

“If you want,” Childermass replied, nonplussed, pulling gently at the belt.  

“Couldn’t it be just… _you_?”

“Me?”

The pulling had stopped. He vaguely felt the weight of Childermass’s hand shift to his back, drawing him closer; then his quiet breath, ghosting over his cheek, but also the slight tension which kept Childermass still separated from him.

“In dreams you seem less guarded with your words and gestures…”

“We cannot be surprised by servants here.”

“It’s not only that…” Segundus whispered, while he turned his head a little and his mouth found the sharp cheekbone - apparently there were edges that not even the tenderness of dreams could blur. Then it suddenly dawned on Segundus. “Oh, am I going to forget this?”

“I don’t know,” Childermass replied, sounding sincere (he always did though, except when he sounded sarcastic, but then there was a surplus of sincerity there for those who would hear it).

“But you hope so!” Segundus accused him.

He was feeling an inexplicable horror at the idea that he would forget the dream, a rage against something which had not happened yet, as if he _knew_ that Childermass was capable of being so cruel and arrogant - so calculating, giving something of himself and then denying to have ever done so (was it not what he had done before, erasing their correspondence at the wave of his hand?).

“Oh, have you burnt my letters?” Segundus asked. He had never thought of it before, but it seemed likely, and it hurt.

“Mr Segundus, don’t wake up,” Childermass told him, his hold growing firmer.

Segundus had not backed away, yet at the corners of his eyes the snow was turning into a kind of fine, silvery sand that scratched his skin, and Childermass’s voice seemed to come from a greater distance, even if his mouth was now so close to his that they surely looked as if they were kissing (supposing that the ravens, their only witnesses, had any concept of kissing).

“ _Stay_. Stay here,” Childermass said, not as if he cared.

His hands, though, ran soothingly and warmly up and down Segundus’s back, as if he cared a great deal.

“I don’t care for dreams I’m going to forget,” Segundus declared, his voice a little tremulous against the intense, heavy focus of Childermass’s hands roaming over his old nightshirt. “Maybe you, on the contrary,  only care for dreams of that kind.”

Childermass made a distressed noise and it acted better than the touch and the words, snapping Segundus back into the dream - that noise was the realest thing he had experienced since he had started dreaming.

“You’re distracting me,” Childermass grunted when he saw that Segundus was again dreaming with him.

Segundus, who was not doing anything at all apart from being vaguely hurt and letting the man mistreat his nightshirt, guessed that it was a more general assertion, and also an imputation.

“Well, I’m very sorry for it,” he mumbled.

“Oh you aren’t,” Childermass replied bitterly.

But then his hands squeezed Segundus, a closing of fingers upon his nightshirt, nails digging deeper than that - not harming, just scraping cloth and flesh alike; causes and effects seemed to work on separated levels in dreams, so if there was any violence in Childermass’s embrace it was thwarted by the velvety nature of the dream. His kiss, which meant to bite and to shush, had the feebleness of a memory too often remembered, to the point that it grows uncertain, richer in fantasies than in recollections.

Still, it was a kiss; Childermass’s kiss, and Segundus’s knees buckled a little under it.

Childermass grabbed him by the belt of the nightshirt, helping him stand and trapping him at the same time. He also tugged at the belt, with more strength - Segundus suspected - than he would have applied were they both awake and in the same room. He must have guessed that his actions were dulled by the dream-state and wished to make himself _felt_ despite it.

Indeed the kiss seemed to grow sharper, the press of Childermass’s tongue closer to the truth of it, the taste of his mouth reminding Segundus of the smoke Childermass had had before bed, but also of snow and herbs collected from moors and dales. There was also an urgency for nakedness in Childermass’s kiss, the work of his mouth suddenly travelling south, seeking Segundus’s sensitive neck and then the opening of the nightshirt, biting the collarbone while his fingers struggled with the knot of the belt.

“Wait, no…” Segundus gasped, feeling that the dream was eluding him. He saw what Childermass was doing, he also felt it - not always, it was more like sparkles of sensations burning now here where a thumb found his nipple through the wool, now where Childermass gently kissed the mark of a bite that would not be there in the morning. Yet it was becoming more Childermass’s dream than it had been before, and the magic seeped more abundantly from the ground and from the sky, stunning Segundus into a motionless, almost speechless state. “Even if it’s a dream, I don’t…”

“What?” Childermass croaked.

His mouth was still buried against Segundus’s neck, his breath burning the delicate skin there, but he had grown tense, his hands still.

“Can’t I…can’t I get to know you, Childermass?”

Silence. _Know me?_ , it said ironically. Segundus swallowed, but soldiered on.

“I seem to know nothing about you. About the way you live, and where you came from, and your…”

He stopped abruptly, because every topic seemed such a hideous breach of Childermass’s reserve, too much to ask from a man who clearly took pride and pleasure in puzzling most of his peers and even more those above him. Segundus felt ashamed at his own silliness, and braced himself for the moment when Childermass would remind him that carnal relations hardly required - and rather advised against - any other kind of intimacy. He dared a look at Childermass’s face and winced at the thought that its blankness was a substitute for the anger Childermass would never show him - it was worse, truly, than any fury Childermass could have manifested.

But then Childermass laughed. Segundus was not sure that it was a good laugh, and cowed a little.

“Very well, sir,” Childermass said, his black eyes still cold, but his mouth softened by the laugh. “But for every question asked, I’ll have a kiss.”

“Is it a game to you?” Segundus bristled.

“Play.” A pull, an embrace, Childermass’s mouth almost - but still not - touching his.

“Is John Childermass your real name?”

“Why shouldn’t it be?” Childermass asked, now more sincerely amused than he had been a few moments before. He sighed. “ _John_ they gave me because my mother was Joan; Black Joan they called her. Black hair, black ways, they say[3],” he grinned, as if to suggest that Segundus had all to learn about his own black ways. “Childermass I gave to myself, when need arose. I had taken it from an orphan who had been raised by the priests. He was with us a summer, before winter came. Now, my kiss.”

And he took it, before Segundus could ask any other questions - _Black Joan? Us? What did winter bring? -_ and learn more of that childhood of which he had been given the briefest, and most compelling, glimpse.

“One kiss!” Segundus protested feebly, when Childermass had to take a breath - well, they both needed it.

“We didn’t settle on the length of the kiss,” the other man mused, his nose nuzzling at Segundus’s jaw.

Segundus was on the verge of underlining again that it must be the dream which made Childermass so playful, but he refrained himself for fear of offending him. He had already learnt that Childermass was not to be reminded of his own warmth, which he would consider something of a liability - though Segundus found it very infuriating that tenderness must be so described in a man.    

“Where were you born?”

“Under a market stall,” Childermass replied mechanically. “She was…examining the fish, when the pains took her. So she hid there. And well, nature ran her course, and she would not be slowed down by it. I had the good sense of being quick, she got the fish, and another mouth to feed, which wasn’t a bad bargain, but not a good one either. Black Joan was afraid I’d grow up a fisherman with the smell of fish upon me.”

Segundus looked at Childermass. He had not meant to, but he knew he had made a sound, half-horrified, at the idea that a poor woman might be forced to give birth under some revolting market stalls, between fish heads and entrails, the ground slippery with mixed blood, her arms glittering with the scales plastered there. And the boy, oh the poor boy who had known no better than to be born there and then! A few raw details, some told, many more imagined in the short pauses between Childermass’s words, but still enough to tell Segundus how alone and poor, and maybe not quite honest, Black Joan must have been. Poverty he knew, but this was another kind of destitution, of filthiness, of…

“This was not a good idea.”

Childermass had spoken with the utmost neutrality.

“No, no, I’m sorry,” Segundus started, feeling that he had made a mistake; that of being so unprepared for what he might hear of Childermass’s past. And now Childermass looked at him, as if daring him to show pity and thus humiliate him. But Segundus did not want to humiliate him, his pity was but a heart-breaking desire to mend whatever hurt might be hidden behind Childermass’s indifferent narrative.

“You owe me a kiss then,” Childermass said, this time much more soberly.

He stood still, so it was up to Segundus to tilt his head and gently seek Childermass’s lips. He was under the impression that Childermass had been holding his breath, but as soon as he pressed his mouth to his he was rewarded by a light groan. Yet Childermass did not take charge of the kiss, but simply offered his mouth and kept his eyes half-open, as if he could not completely abandon himself; it made Segundus self-conscious, this looking at one another while their mouths met.

He could not help thinking of the child Childermass must have been, and that gave a new depth to his tenderness, as if he had been reminded that John Childermass was as vulnerable as any other man.

“Stop it,” Childermass grunted, before nipping at Segundus’s lower lip.

“I’m not…”

“You are. Now stop that. It’s my turn,” he said abruptly. “You didn’t write.”

“That’s not a question. And I have already answered,” Segundus murmured, though he sounded quite unconvincing to his own ears.

“I must assure you that I do not need any other reason to despise Mr Lascelles. But if any of what he said to you has anything to do with your silence, I shall confer with him upon my return.”

_Confer_ had a dark sound on Childermass’s tongue, and Segundus swallowed.

“I beg you, he didn’t…I don’t think he knows about, well, about what we did…”

“He doesn’t. If he knew, he would have let me know.” _He would have used that knowledge against you_ , Segundus now realised, his heart feeling suddenly heavier at the idea that Childermass might have been put at a disadvantage by their dealings, and lost whatever ground he was holding against Mr Lascelles’s designs. “Don’t think of that now, sir,” Childermass scolded him, and Segundus would have liked to protest that he had promised not to read his thoughts, but he was hushed by the words that followed. “I’m not in the habit of asking twice, but I shall make an exception for you, owing to the fact that I did sever our correspondence in the past. It’s, I think, that you don’t know what I’m offering.”

Segundus could not talk, so he nodded, just once.

“It’s not much,” Childermass shrugged, and Segundus wished that he could brush his dark hair - the locks which had slipped from the ribbon - behind his ears, to better see his sharp face. “Only you must grow lonely at times; at such times you may find my company not so unpleasant. I think you appreciated our talks and the letters. I’d have more of your letters, if you’d spare some ink and papers, sir. And I’d have more of your kisses, when I found myself in the North. I’m not my own master, but you know that, and you may want to look elsewhere for contentment. Still, I believe I may be of service.”

“I don’t want a servant,” Segundus retorted.

“Then what?” Childermass asked, raising an eyebrow, as if really there was no more than a servant and a servant’s services to be offered so lightly. _What an ass he can make of himself,_ Segundus thought with ill-repressed fury; Childermass chuckled darkly at that, eyes bright with annoyance and mirth at the insult he must have just fished out of Segundus’s thoughts; he caught him again by the waist, bringing their bodies flush. “The limits of your politeness are something I may want to explore. And now you know what I offer; I shall have your answer.”

_It’s always been yes_.

Childermass looked at him curiously. He bent his head to press a light kiss to Segundus’s mouth.

“Do they feel…” Segundus started - he did not know how to describe the difference from the kisses they had exchange in reality. These were nice and exciting, smoother and easier somehow, nor had his lips grown so sensitive from the sting of Childermass’s two-days beard; and still they did not compare.

“No,” Childermass replied. “But I like the idea of it.”

“Of kissing?”

Childermass gave him a look, as if Segundus was being very dense. It was a recurring look, indeed, and if Segundus did not take too much offence in it, it was because he thought that there was some fondness to be found there as well.

“On the first of September I’ll be in York. I’ll come to you then, if that’s agreeable.”

“It is,” Segundus whispered.

He felt a change in the dream, a shift rather than a rupture, snow turning into sand, and the trees seemed to be held together but by a ribbon, a dark green ribbon running through twigs and lavender stalks. The sky was turning from black to purple, the strangest dawn Segundus had ever seen; then he was waking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] It has been recently ascertained that this copy of _A Faire Wood Withering_ corresponds with the entry AG1810/1 in the record of Gilbert Norrell’s library, that is to say the first book acquired in the year 1810, written by an argentine author. The record was neatly kept by John Childermass until he left his master; Childermass was not in the habit of including any additional remarks apart from the evidence concerning the edition, state, and value of the books - mostly purchased, rarely sold, never destroyed as long as John Childermass was with Mr Norrell. It is therefore very curious - and quite unique - the small S which can be found right beside the annotation on the damage suffered by the 15th century _incunabulum_. Some have suggested that the single S refers to the city of Salisbury, Wiltshire, where the book was probably purchased; this interpretation also accounts for the lack of any other indication as to the place where the book came from. It must be reminded, though, that several entries do not include such information, probably owing to John Childermass’s desire to be discreet about the origins of some particular tomes, either to protect a source or to erase any proof of misuse. Indeed it has been often supposed that another, more complete, record existed; it has not been discovered yet. It is worth mentioning that the S may, on the other hand, refers to John Segundus. Despite the fact that Watershippe’s book is far more famous for the example of Stokey’s Vitrification, the spell that Mr Norrell would later accomplish in the version nowadays held to be the most perfected of the three transmitted to us, it also included a chapter dedicated to dream-forests, which many associate to Faire Woods, but might also have contributed to the spell John Childermass later created and improved with the assistance of John Segundus. It is not wholly improbable that he had been working on it, or at least on the idea of it, since the early 1810. 
> 
> [2] From a letter John Segundus wrote to Jonathan Strange on May 13rd, 1810: “ _I do believe Mr Lascelles to be a man of intelligence. You must pardon my frankness, but Mr Drawlight did not strike me as the brilliant gentleman he is held to be in the best society; I found him astute and very well-versed in the arts of pleasing others, but I could not see how I was to appreciate his mind - this may owe to my lack of London manners though. I had hardly any chance to speak to Mr Lascelles, but I believe that if he found a way to circumvent his own indolence and his sense of superiority, he may better serve his friends. He has a very good memory to help him and I think he has acquired an understanding of magic, though he has never been taught by Mr Norrell or anyone. You say that he has no interest in magic and you may be right, and that he sees in magic an instrument rather than anything else, as he would a good horse or a deck of cards. It is very difficult, in my opinion, to decide what Mr Lascelles could ever do with magic, since Mr Norrell seems so wary about taking new pupils. Sometimes I feel it is a pity that the revival of English magic should be subjected to such a slow progress, but other times I must admit that Mr Norrell’s knowledge places him at an advantage upon us all and his foresight must have better grounds than mine._ ” 
> 
> [3] John Segundus would only later discover - as a letter to Mr Thomas Levy dating December 20th, 1817, proves - that the “Black hair, black ways” phrase had been used in bygone times by the detractors of the Raven King. It did not belong, as he had thought the first time he heard of it from Childermass’s mouth, to the sayings of the people in York; or at least it had been accepted as such only after it had been prominent among the slanders thrown against John Uskglass. More than one scholar sees in this remark an early sign of the increasing self-identification between John Childermass and John Uskglass, from which the renowned consequences would stem.


	10. Another Love

_June 5 th, 1817_

 

As soon as Lucy came in carrying the tray, her round shoulder pushing against the door to open it further, Childermass stood up and kept the door ajar; he did not take the tray from her, but watched her movements as to make sure that she did not need any further aid, then thanked her with a pleased hum.

“I took the liberty of bringing the pound cake with the strawberry sauce,” Lucy said, her cheeks pink with the boldness of her kind thought. She looked at Segundus and then at Childermass with an expectant gaze, so sweetly anxious that Segundus felt pity mingle with his - indeed unfair - annoyance at the girl’s dawdling.

“Thank you very much Lucy,” he said, forcing himself to smile. “That will be all for the moment. Mr Childermass and I would rather not be disturbed.”

“Certainly sir,” Lucy nodded quickly. “I’ll tell Charles and the gentlemen.”

“Mrs Strange and Miss Greysteel have already taken their tea?” Segundus enquired.

“Yes, sir. Mr Hadley-Bright is showing them the grounds and the surroundings, while Mr Levy and Mr Purfois are reading Mr Vinculus,” she informed him.

“Very well. Thank you Lucy.”

Feeling dismissed, the girl curtseyed, the tray tight against her bosom, then left the small parlour.

Childermass, already back in his seat, followed her with his eyes. When the door closed, he poured the tea in their cups, then opened the sugar bowl and put the smallest quantity of sugar in his tea.

“A full teaspoon please,” Segundus said hurriedly, noticing that Childermass meant to take care of his tea as well.

“I know,” Childermass said, without looking at him - Segundus felt sure that he was smiling.

He should have made more economies concerning the consumption of sugar in the house, especially now that the ladies had joined them and tea might become a grander affair than it had been before. Mr Levy did not take it, _how bizarre he is at times!_ , the other gentlemen were not so steady in their interest and Vinculus had a deplorable taste for stronger drinks; that had left only Childermass and himself taking their tea most of the days - often together, _for lack of other companions_ Segundus wished to remind himself. But with the two ladies in the house tea would become more of a social gathering, and he felt that he must refrain from taking too much sugar with it in the future. It was bad enough that Childermass was aware of his sweet-tooth!

“I see that Lucy favours you,” Segundus suddenly commented.

Not only did he wish to express some annoyance at what had taken place a few moments before with the housemaid, but also to steal Childermass’s attention from their tea - for he could no longer bear to watch him cut the cake and pour the sauce on it, as swift and precise as if he was performing a duty.

_I’m not your master!_ , Segundus would have gladly cried, if his mouth had not then felt so dry from the unpleasantness of watching Childermass serve him.

“Does she now?” Childermass answered, clearly in one of his insolent moods. At least he seemed to think better of it, because he added with some seriousness: “Lucy and I, we understand each other.”

Segundus blinked and, when he realised that he was staring stupidly at Childermass’s cool expression, lowered his eyes. His cheeks burnt, while his mind reeled at the implications of such _understanding_ between a man and a woman. It was not only - or so he told himself - that he acutely disliked the idea of Childermass entertaining any such relation with someone; no, he was not simply _jealous_ of the complicity grown between his housemaid and John Childermass, of the looks they traded, of the way they seemed to share a secret and the way they seemed even more impatient to make a show of it when Segundus was present. And despite the fact that he knew that Childermass had always been quite respected, and quite appreciated, among the people of Mr Norrell’s household and there was no reason for him to make himself disagreeable to any of the servants at Starecross - indeed Cook and Charles had become very glad of Childermass’s presence in the house, after their initial mistrust - he had a right to be worried about Lucy’s particular fondness for the man.

“You see that I’m responsible for her well-being,” Segundus said aloud, making to take his cup of tea and then leaving it on the small table for he feared that his trembling fingers would betray his state of mind, “as her employer and her…well, I hope she sees in me a guidance, too, and she might want to trust my advice as she did before. She has an ailing mother and she’s a good girl. She has learnt so much since she came to Starecross, and -”

“Then you wouldn’t oppose me if I decided to try to teach her some magic.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I think she’s not only good, but also bright. Not very quick at first, but she can learn - you have just said so yourself.”

“I meant as a housemaid, not as a magician!” Segundus protested, feeling that the conversation had taken an unfairly unexpected turn and that he had not had any time to give thought to such a subject.

Besides, what ever did this mean? Was it a ruse to spend more time with the girl?

“I was not aware that you had anything against teaching magic to women. You wrote quite the vindication of it in one of your letters.”

“I remember it very well,” Segundus mumbled, bright red.

He had defended, in that old letter, the right of women to learn magic, and the right of men to love men. Which had also been a way to tell Childermass that he, John Segundus, had a preference for men. It had been one of the most difficult letters he had ever written, and still he had written it in such a passion of feelings, fears, and hopes too.

“Then you object to her being a servant?”

“No, _no_ ,” Segundus almost cried, exasperated. “How can you think…?” he looked at Childermass, not really knowing how to express how indifferent he felt to anything but the true value of a human being, which did not have anything to do with gender, status, even skin, no more than it had to do with their affections.

“Well, then I shall teach her,” Childermass replied briskly. Then he tried to meet Segundus’s gaze, which was not something Segundus wanted right now. He heard Childermass sigh. “I don’t mean to displease you, but I do think she might be good at it. She has the desire for more, you see, and that’s a good point to start.”

“Was it that for you?”

“Yes.”

“Then do as you please, Mr Childermass, if you really mean it. Only you must promise me that you’ll not hurt her: a young woman must think of herself in a way young men must not, her reputation - ” he stopped, unable to continue, words stuck in his throat. His concern for Lucy was sincere, yet even stronger was the bitter anguish squeezing his chest and leaving him breathless at the thought of her and Childermass.

“I don’t mean to mislead any of the women of Starecross.” A pause. “You _must_ know that,” Childermass added, suggesting that if Segundus did _not_ know that he was just being very obstinate.

_The women of Starecross_ , Segundus thought with light amusement: yes, it might come to that, to having them around for a longer time than they had expected when they had received Miss Greysteel’s letter telling them of their return to England and asking to visit.

“I apologise, Mr Childermass,” Segundus said tightly. “I didn’t mean to extort any promise from you, you must be free to do as your conscience suggests to you, but you cannot expect me to be silent if…”

_If what?_ Segundus had never asked Childermass if he had ever loved a woman; if he wanted women, _in general and in particular_. Well, for what he knew of Childermass’s affections there might have been - there might be! - a wife somewhere.

“I bedded a few women when I was hardly more than a boy,” Childermass said with his customary and maddening bluntness. He was sipping his tea - Segundus had left his untouched - and looking at him. “Older, there were some women I liked especially. I wish to think I was a good friend to them, and I stopped at that, at being a friend; though some thought of marrying me, but I shan’t never marry. I have known for a very long time that I prefer men as bedfellows.” He drank his tea. “Does that satisfy you, sir?”

“I’m not to be satisfied!”

“I guess you aren’t,” Childermass grunted with a roll of his eyes. “I trust that there won’t be any more silliness about me and Lucy, though.”

Segundus decided that rather than answering Childermass’s provocation - _silliness_ indeed! - he would do better to eat his pound cake, so he focused on chewing against the exhilarating - and shameful - relief he was experiencing at the idea that Childermass did not mean to become Lucy’s _beau_ and that… _oh, nothing, it means nothing!_ , he reproached himself.

After all, since Childermass had kissed him in the kitchen on a day in April, nothing had followed - that is to say that Childermass had not actively _pursued_ him. It was true that Miss Greysteel’s letter had put them all in a flutter of questions, for they all believed that Mrs Strange would come to them with extraordinary news, or at least she would beg them to do all in their power to bring her husband back. Provisions had been made, rooms had been fitted for the arrival of the ladies, and - since Childermass had warned them that he would not tolerate any tarrying of their work - they had kept studying the King’s Letters.

That was hard, slow work. Besides, since the beginning Segundus had had the impression - a suspicion later confirmed by Childermass himself - that the letters, even when copied and recopied on paper, retained some magic. It acted upon them, affecting their thoughts and their feelings: Mr Purfois would grow anxious enough to mutter list of ingredients and words of incantations as if he feared to forget them all at once; Mr Levy’s quiet ways would give place to an aggressive attitude toward his colleagues, and he would confine himself to the garden, kicking stones and breaking branches; Mr Hadley-Bright took it better than anyone else, lamenting only a vague sleepiness. Segundus, on the other hand, would find himself in a different room without knowing how and why he had got there, and what this sense of purpose filling his limbs and his head could ever mean. And Childermass was affected as well. _How_ , they did not know, for Childermass kept the nature of it to himself, but he was often found pale or with red spots upon his cheeks after he had been reading for a while.

So they took turns. This way the side-effects were much softer. _And it does good to our minds and eyes as well_ , Segundus thought, because otherwise Childermass would have hardly eaten for the impatience of going on with the work. Whereas there were other important things which required their commitment: magicians to meet, meetings to attend, letters to write, and obviously Starecross, whose management took quite the toll on Segundus.

Furthermore, the whole country was alive with magic. Rarely a day passed without a letter coming to Starecross to report of a magical deed accomplished in a village or an enchanted path opening in the woods; and rarely a day passed without at least one of them leaving the house to examine a child who had performed magic under the frightened eyes of her parents, or a strange circle of stones appearing over night in the middle of the pasture, or again a book which might be of magic. Most of the times the child was only in a tantrum or the parents meant to earn something by showing her as wonder at a village fair, the stones had been put there by an envious neighbour or some youth in the mood for a prank, while the book was worth nothing.

But sometimes magic was there and it was the old magic mingling with the new, traces of the spells Norrell and Strange had brought back to life combined with older, unnamed enchantments.

It was not surprising that with all that was going on in the world Childermass had no longer tried to kiss him, let alone speak to him. He was by far the most occupied of them all, entertaining correspondences with half the world (oh, he had got a couple of letters even from the _colonies_!). People would ask for his opinions on all matters and even the Learned Society seemed now unable to part with the man for more than a week. He travelled, too, staying away never more than a couple of days at a time, but Segundus thought that sooner or later not even Vinculus and the book of the Raven King would be enough to keep John Childermass at Starecross. If he grew sad when he thought of it, Segundus tried to hide it from himself as from the others.

As for the fact that Childermass was not - what? _wooing_ him? - Segundus told himself that his frustration owed to being deprived of the chance to give the man the reprimand his arrogance deserved. This way he was never in the position to reproach him, at least not for unrequited wooing. Though he suspected that Childermass’s approach was more about ambushing people in the dark corners of libraries and parlours and stealing kisses - something Segundus had strictly _not_ daydreamt of.

He had actually tried not to be alone with Childermass at the beginning, avoiding any chance of being left in the room with him, or being persuaded to walk or even talk if no one else was around. In the long run it had been impossible to do so, given their common goal. They studied side by side, often sharing the last turn of translation after dinner or the one in the early morning hours - arrangements they both preferred over any others, having long been used to restricting their work on magic to such hours; the heavy work of plodding through the King’s letters was made easier by each other’s presence and competence, and it followed that they ended up sharing meals and long discussions on the results and consequences of their work.

Then Segundus would too easily forget his self-made promise to stay away from Childermass and to not fall into the habit of being his friend, let alone anything more. He would reproach himself and work himself to a kind of retrospective rage over the silliest details of Childermass’s behaviour, but how could he help it? He had thought very highly of Childermass’s mind for a long time by then, and still it was now that they were working together that he saw what a man, what a magician Childermass was. How fine his reasoning, how clear-headed his approach, how irresistible his arguments! Also, he had a humour which was never obliging, and yet so much more pleasant for it. Segundus would sometimes go to bed and find himself smiling after he had snuffed the candle, for he was still mulling over something amusing Childermass had said.

They were quite happy, yes, and despite this - or maybe for this very reason - Segundus was guarded.

It might be that he had no reason to feel so. Childermass might have understood why Segundus _could not and would not_ , that was probably why he had not taken any other step to pursue him. Yet Segundus felt not so convinced, because Childermass was always there nonetheless, wherever he looked, watching and biding his time, throwing him glances, claiming his attention without seeming to do so.

Segundus finished his cake, took another sip of tea, and then decided that they had better discuss the topic they both thought quite urgent after their morning meeting with the ladies. This was why Childermass had been invited to join him in the little parlour Segundus considered almost his own, at least because he was the only one using it most of the time - though it might be that the others had understood his preference and very gladly left him master of the light-green parlour which overlooked the garden. It was certainly not the most beautiful or spacious dayroom of the house. The fireplace was very small and ugly, the ceiling too low and it had a certain smell of old things even in the heat of summer when Lucy opened the window wide; but Segundus had liked it from the very start, with its little wooden monsters making faces from the four corners of the ceiling, and the water-green tint of the walls.

“So, what do you think of it, Childermass?” Segundus asked simply.

“I suppose you’re not talking of the pound cake - which is good, though some Madeira wine would have gone very well with it,” Childermass answered.

Segundus suspected that the Madeira wine reference owed to an evening a few weeks before, when Mr Hadley-Bright had brought home a bottle of Madeira and they had decided to drink from it to celebrate Mr Purfois’s birthday (which he had tried to keep secret from them, being very annoyed by parties of all kinds). Segundus had overestimated his own resistance to the wine and found himself slightly (a good deal, that is to say) uncertain on his feet, so Childermass - who had cunningly found himself right at Segundus’s side when the latter had decided it was time for him to go to bed - had offered him his arm in front of everyone. And he had taken it! Oh, Segundus had taken it, and leant on Childermass while they ascended the stairs, and - worst of all! - kissed his rough cheek in almost tearful gratitude when Childermass had bid him good night.

Suffice to say that Segundus had spent the night tossing and turning, now ashamed and now excited at the thought that maybe, maybe Childermass was right on the other side of the door, or at least as alert as he was, only waiting for him to go knock on the door of his room.

“I’m obviously talking of Mrs Strange’s plea,” Segundus answered, frowning.

“I take it that you were as surprised as anyone else in the room.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“You’re better acquainted with Mrs Strange than any of us, Mr Segundus. I think she had long considered you her friend, and wouldn’t have come here if you were not the master of the house. You may have had an inkling to what she’d say today, something that her companion Miss Greysteel already knew, though I do not believe that she agrees with Mrs Strange’s refusal to rescue Jonathan Strange.”

Segundus flinched. He disliked to hear of it, but then had not those been Mrs Strange’s words?       

_I am here to ask you to let my husband exactly where he is_. Well, at least she had left them all speechless, even Childermass - not a small feat, that.

“She may not really mean what she has said.”

“Mrs Strange doesn’t strike me as that sort of woman. She’s not _confused_. She had thought about it and she knows what she wants.”

“But what she wants is…”

“Unnatural?”

“Cruel,” Segundus corrected him. “Toward herself, first of all. For she _wants_ him back, but she can think of sacrificing her wish to his.”

“Do you think Strange really spoke to her? Appeared to her?”

“Why shouldn’t I believe it? I’m sure Mr Strange would try to talk to her, to explain what happened…”

“She might be deranged by grief.”

“You’ve just said that she’s not confused,” Segundus protested.

“One might be sincerely convinced of their own delusions. So she may mean what she says, and then be a little mad. Which, if I understand well, is exactly how Strange got her back. Going a little mad. She might be trying the same trick,” Childermass mused, to Segundus’s horror. “But I agree with you after all. She spoke to Strange, otherwise she wouldn’t be able to describe the _Pillar of Darkness_ the way she has done. Bright she may be, but she’s not a magician; she rather used the words of a magician.”

“When you say _a magician_ …”

“We cannot be sure that it was Strange.”

“A fairy? Another magician? Or even… _him_?”

“I hope she can tell her husband from _something else_ , but we should remember how Strange could not tell her apart from a puppet created by the fairy. And he was a magician.”

“But an absent-minded husband,” Segundus said, colouring at his own disloyalty. Childermass raised an eyebrow. “I’m only saying that I think _she_ would know. We cannot exclude it though,” he conceded.

“Then you agree with me that we will question her,” Childermass said swiftly. “And also try to find traces of magic - any magic - upon her.”

“Yes,” Segundus replied though he disliked it and Childermass knew it very well. “What happened once could happen again. Strange might try to talk to her again.”

“If it’s true - that Norrell and he are studying the Pillar and travelling between worlds with it - it might be a long time before they think of showing their faces to anyone around here,” Childermass pointed out, with a sardonic glint in his eyes. “We might not hear from them for years. You know them both, and you know how they are finally alone now. Which might be what they needed after all that nonsense of fighting each other. And now Norrell has no longer to worry about the Raven King’s fame, for his time has come…at least if you listen to our friend Vinculus.”

“You seem very sure about Mr Norrell’s feelings on living in the Pillar of Darkness,” Segundus could not help commenting.

“I’ll listen to whatever idea you’ve got about Strange,” Childermass offered with a grin, while he settled more comfortably in his armchair. Segundus was afraid that he might even go as far as to put his feet on the table, but for the time being Childermass only put his hands on his stomach.

“Well, for a start, Mr Strange has a wife he loves.”

“And when ever has he chosen her over magic?”

It was a brutal question, but it was part of talking of such things to John Childermass.

“He loved her enough to go mad to rescue her from the clutch of fairies.”

“After he had lost her,” Childermass retorted. “Besides, I think he enjoyed discovering how far he could get with his magic.”

“He was not heartless,” Segundus said in a voice he did not like - like he was begging.

“He had _priorities_ though.”

“Don’t we all?”

This time Segundus had hit the mark. It did not happen often, but he could see it in the way Childermass’s expression closed, when only a moment before he had been shamelessly tasting the effect of his words. And afraid that Childermass might soon come up with another sharp comment about Jonathan’s faults - which unfortunately had much to do with his greatness - Segundus spoke again.

“The point is whether or not Mrs Strange has a right to keep us from finding a way to bring them back.”

Childermass said nothing for a while, then stood up and went to the window.

“If there was a chance to bring them back,” he said, his back turned on Segundus, “I’d seize it.”

“Because…”

“Not because I think they must want it. After all she may be right: Norrell and Strange may be happy enough in the Pillar of Darkness, doing magic and discovering more. They might be so kind as to find some other way to tell us that we must go on with our lives and our magic here. But if there’s a way to dispel the Pillar, I must prove myself.”

Segundus thought that he saw Childermass’s sharp smile in the window glass.

“You’re not so different from Mr Strange then.”

Childermass shrugged.

“I shall play my part as he and Norrell did before me.”

“What does that ever mean?” Segundus asked, more than a little exasperated by Childermass’s penchant for fateful, dramatic statements.

“You may not know that Strange asked me to become his pupil once. It was after he had lost his wife and was back in London. He was working on his book, and wanted me as his pupil,” Childermass repeated, as if still could not believe it. “I told him that Mr Norrell and I were not finished yet.” The return of the _Mr_ before Norrell was not lost on Segundus. Now Childermass was looking at him. “What I started then, leaving my master, I haven’t finished yet. I left Mr Norrell and now I serve another - the King in the North, I mean, not you, Mr Segundus.”

“I certainly hadn’t imagined otherwise!” Segundus babbled, blushing scarlet.

“Though I’d serve you in other ways,” Childermass said quickly, as if he meant to dismiss his own words as something he could not help. Which was a strange, hurtful way of saying them. “But I shall be where my King wants me, and do his bidding.”

It was not that they had never mentioned the King in the North before. They had discussed - mostly alone, a few times with the others - Vinculus’s belief that both Norrell and Strange were part of Uskglass’s plan, and such a plan meant not only the return of magic, but also the return of the King.

Yet Childermass had always seemed only to play with the idea, the way he played with many ideas about magic; he had showed a certain disenchantment about it, thus leading Segundus to believe that he really did not trust Vinculus’s notion that Strange and Norrell had been the very spell created by Uskglass. But now he looked at Childermass’s black eyes and saw that he was deadly serious.

Segundus felt embarrassed, as if he had witnessed something he had no right to; after all he believed in magic and also that John Uskglass might have the means to return, but as to serving John Uskglass…he had been a good magician, the greatest of them all indeed, but a good man? A good ruler? The chronicles and other sources he had had access to had left him doubtful, and even the Raven King’s own supporters and apologists had often underlined how relentless he was against his enemies.

But, he reminded himself, this was John Childermass: he had his own ways to serve his master, servant as he was and still much more than that.

“Will you not be in danger of mistaking what _you_ want for what he wants you to do?”

“I may,” Childermass admitted, without smiling, but returning to his armchair - no, closer than that, for he was now standing only a step away from where Segundus sat with his empty teacup in his hands.

“So, you think Mrs Strange has no right to decide her husband’s fate, don’t you? Even if she’s his wife, and even if he didn’t ask her to try to bring him back.”

“She has the right to talk and the right to try to stop me.”

“You make it sounds like a…”

“A battle? It’s politics, Mr Segundus. And it’s war, yes,” Childermass said, his eyes shining darkly in the sweet light of the afternoon. “We’ve been at it for centuries, those who waited for the King of the North and those who would rather have him forgotten.”

“Now you’re scaring me, Childermass.”

Contrary to Segundus’s fear, rather than throwing him a contemptuous glance, Childermass seemed to deflate at his words.

“I don’t mean to. What will you do? Will you help me if we find a way to free them from the Pillar?” he asked softly. Then he shrugged, as if he had already thought better of it. “Will you be at Mrs Strange’s side?”

“I don’t know yet,” Segundus confessed with a shiver. “I must consider. First we must find a way, which is not going to be an easy task since we don’t know where to start and our progress in deciphering the King’s letters is very slow. Things might have changed by the time we find answers.”

“My congratulations, sir,” Childermass commented after a moment of silence. “You’re a better politician that I am. Not taking sides, considering your opponents, biding your time.”

“Stop it, Childermass,” Segundus snapped. He stood up and paced the room, for want of something to do.

“Forgive me. Mrs Strange’s words have…affected me more than I thought it possible.”

Childermass had not moved, but he had turned his eyes toward the window. Segundus observed his sharp profile and an ache started in his chest at the inviolable loneliness which set Childermass apart, even in that most mundane of settings. He wondered what he could see, what he _wanted_ to see, out there.  

The answer made him angry.

“You want him back,” Segundus said quietly. “Not Uskglass. I’m not talking about him.”

“You mean Norrell.”

“Don’t you?”

“What are you really asking, Mr Segundus?”

They were facing each other. Childermass in his shirt and waistcoat, lean and tall; his dark hair soft from the bath he had taken earlier that day. Segundus in the old, comfortable clothes he used to wear when he worked in the garden, as he had done after speaking to Mrs Strange because he needed some time to himself, to think about the implications of her words. And also about the past, about his friendship with Jonathan Strange, the letters they had exchanged over the years and how Jonathan had always encouraged him to keep pursuing his dream of becoming a magician. He was a magician now, of a sort, still learning, still feeling inadequate, and yet he did magic of his own.

He suddenly worried that his clothes might not be so clean and that the smell of grass, earth, and flowers was all about him. _What a gentleman I am_ , he reproached himself, feeling that his manners and his ambitions were very simple, too simple probably to be a good magician. It had been very naïve of him to think that Childermass, even now that they shared magic, could ever…

“You were in love with him.”

He knew it had sounded like an accusation; he had not meant it that way, or maybe he had, but he had no time to add anything before he heard Childermass laughing.

“Is that what you’re on about?” Childermass asked, his voice so full of mirth that Segundus would have laughed too, if he had not felt that it was a miserable pretence. “You still think Mr Norrell…” Childermass shook his head. “I’m afraid you never understood him if you think he might have entered such a relationship. I don’t mean that he’d have recoiled at the idea of a man or a servant; he would have, of course he was too proper to think of it, but he would have felt the same horror toward any human being. He loved but magic and books, and if he loved and hated Jonathan Strange it was magic which made him do it.”

“I’m not…” Segundus swallowed, his head spinning by all that talk of _love_. Had they ever talked about it like this, without gentle, cold words to protect them both? “I don’t care how Mr Norrell felt about you. It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t mean that you did not love him. And I think, I think I deserve to hear of it now.”

Childermass watched him silently this time. He did not laugh, he did not move. The silence stretched for so long that Segundus felt compelled to speak again.

“You want to go looking for him. Admit it. Just admit it, _once_.”

“Why shouldn’t I admit it? He’s no longer my master and he wronged me,” Childermass said, tilting his head as if he was speaking of someone else, as if the thin, silvery scar was not on his cheek, “but yes, I’d like to see him again. He wouldn’t like it, magic for everyone, but…”

“You might teach him to like it, right?” Segundus interrupted him, clenching his fists.

“You’re angry with me. I might deserve it, but this has nothing to do with Norrell.”

“Hasn’t it though? Wasn’t he whom you served when you came to Starecross and told me that I could not have a school for magicians? Wasn’t he your master when you spied on me with your cards?”

“What have you been imagining?” Childermass’s tone had grown slightly colder - a sign that he was now losing his patience, but would not stoop so low as to show his temper. “He was not _capable_ of it. That was it. He could not love besides his magic and his books, I told you.”

“That’s why you are the way you are,” Segundus murmured, “you wanted to please him. Good Lord, how you wanted to please him.”

“ _He made me_.” A silence, trembling with fury. “I made him in return. How would you ever understand it? We had been together for a long time, Mr Norrell and I. It might be that I didn’t know him, if I didn’t see that we would part that way; but I think I knew him more than anyone. His fears and his desires, the magician he would become, and the scared child within. I could scare him and I could hurt him, but all I had ever wanted was to serve him, to be by his side.”

_There_.

Childermass’s eyes, wider and blacker, as if someone else - softer, vulnerable - was looking out from the pale, sharp mask of his face; his breath faster, for he had spoken in a rush. He had wanted to hurt Segundus - yes, he had wanted to let him see what he was asking for, to throw his feelings into his face - but he had ill-judged the harm he would do to himself. Now he looked older, tired, his long limbs aching from days and nights spent studying, working, worrying, making plans and destroying plans, fighting and struggling - all those years of silent work, of shameful work, of faithful work for Mr Norrell.

“Oh Childermass,” Segundus said.

He pitied him. He pitied himself. He pitied Norrell who had never seen.

“I have never wanted to fuck him,” Childermass said, the crudity of his words worse than a cry.

“Yes, you had _others_ for that,” Segundus said quietly.

He heard Childermass’s sharp intake of breath, saw the hurt surprise in his eyes.

“Not this again, I beg you.” He took a step toward Segundus as if he wanted - what, _comfort_ him? He was past comfort, he had been for a long time. “You’ve never been…” he stopped, muttered a curse under his breath. What a dolorous show, to see John Childermass at a loss! “Only I never desired him that way. There could’ve never been, between him and me…you see it, don’t you?”

“I see that you were…”

“I told you I wasn’t,” Childermass almost growled. Segundus thought that he would seize him and shake him, until he could no longer repeat it - _you loved him, you loved him, and he didn’t_.

But Childermass did not touch him, and that hurt him more.

“What was between us - he was my master, I his servant. You may think we differed, we did, but we were also well-suited. You cannot understand how it was to be taken into his house, to be given a purpose. I taught myself to read and to write; I did it for he needed me to write and read for him, and I needed that bread and that roof over my head. I thought it’d last a week, I had had enough of him after the very first hours of our acquaintance. It lasted longer. And the longer he lasted, the more I wanted. You think he was cold, he wasn’t. He wasn’t like other men, he didn’t see…he didn’t see me for who I was. He saw my work, he was pleased with it - with me. You don’t know how it is.”

“You’re very arrogant,” Segundus stated, trembling.

“You wanted answers, sir. Ain’t that enough now?” Childermass retorted.

“I loathe your gratitude to him. I’m sorry, but it’s how I feel.”

It was as if he had slapped Childermass. He saw him pale, then the colour rose in his cheeks.

“You’ve nagged me for answers,” Childermass accused him, taking a step forward.

Segundus would have liked to move, but he could not: he had been turned into stone by Childermass’s gaze and now he could only be still while the man’s hand cupped his face.

He felt the slight tremble in those elegant, gentlemanly fingers.

“Stop,” Segundus whispered. The thumb pressed gently on his cheekbone. Childermass was not holding his gaze, only watching his face closely; he felt he could cry. “Leave me now please.” Childermass’s hand fell down. But he did not step back. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting.”

It almost made Segundus laugh, but he refrained himself because he was afraid that it would break him.

“You may wait for a long time,” he said, his voice unsteady. Childermass shrugged. “What if I asked you not to wait?”

“You can command me in other things, John Segundus, but not in this one,” Childermass said solemnly. Segundus felt extremely vexed at the idea that he must accept what he was given - this charity of affection, this wooing to make again a fool of him when he _knew_ how it was… “Don’t put yourself in a flutter,” he was warned. “ _I_ cannot command myself in this and I assure you I tried.”

Segundus stiffened. It was he who took a step back.

“So you’d rather...” he started, searching Childermass’s face for a denial which would not come.

“I’d rather not be miserable, and have no weakness.”

“You’re telling me it’s against your wishes.”

Childermass looked away, and Segundus was left alone, his lower lip hurting under his teeth, the faintest taste of blood on the tip of his tongue. He felt mad with jealousy and sadness, mad with the magic they had done together since Childermass had come living to Starecross, and mad with the magic they would not do. It made him mean, all that could never be.

“I despised him,” he spat, his shoulders bent and his fingers grasping the air. “Despised his blindness, his taking you for granted, his blunders, his coolness. I care not for him, I care not if he was one of the two greatest magicians of the age; he may rot in the Pillar of Darkness for all I care.”

“But you care. You care for everyone,” Childermass said, with a sadness he was not entitled to.

“I hate your horrid gratitude to him,” Segundus continued, feeling that the words were bleeding from his very soul. “Why are you so grateful? You _worked_ for him, he gave you nothing you did not deserve, nothing you did not work for. Why are you still so stupidly, blindly grateful? He didn’t give you anything, he only gave what he needed back. You think he made you better, gave you an education, gave you magic: if he did, it was selfishness and nothing more. Gilbert Norrell didn’t choose you, like you didn’t choose me.”

Childermass grabbed his wrist. He did not pull, but his grip was so tight that the pain shocked Segundus. It cleared his mind and also his voice, which was very controlled when he said:

“You don’t know that he was the one who should have been grateful to you.”

“I wasn’t,” Childermass gritted through his teeth, “in love with him.”

“How would you know?”

The sadness overcame Segundus as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He felt his bones crumble and scatter like ashes floating over the moor, until he could barely stand on his feet at the lightness of having said everything, all at once, now emptied and gutted of all feelings.

He thought he heard Childermass say something - _I would_ , but it was very distant, and he was no longer squeezing his wrist. His heart, though, felt crushed into a fist, beaten and swollen. He pushed Childermass aside - or maybe he did not, he could not quite touch him right now - and found his armchair. He sat down.

“I have been thinking for some time that I might accept that invitation to London,” Childermass said coolly, from somewhere in the room; Segundus had closed his eyes. “It might be time for me to go and see for myself.”

“Yes, yes,” Segundus said reasonably.

“I do not presume to write to you, sir. But I do hope you’ll find it acceptable of me to write to Starecross and enquire about the state of the work and the health of its inhabitants.”

“Certainly Childermass, we will not let you be without news,” Segundus agreed.

“Well, then I should be able to leave the day after tomorrow at most, after speaking to Mrs Strange.”

_So soon!_ , Segundus thought, but said nothing. It was what he had wanted, so he did not ask Childermass when he would return.

When others did, they were told that the business in London would take several weeks, then there might be a chance that other things called Childermass to Edinburgh, but surely he would stop at Starecross on his way there. Not an intimate word passed between them from that afternoon to the day Childermass left.

 

*

 

_January 15 th, 1811_

 

Childermass’s fingers brushed the damp locks from Segundus’s forehead.

“You’re quite captivating like this,” he murmured, before covering Segundus’s mouth with his.

Segundus immediately arched into the kiss, his hands clasping Childermass’s shoulders, grasping at the folds of his neckcloth. He felt Childermass’s thigh - the muscle hard, unyielding - press between his legs, and higher still against his crotch. Childermass’s words had barely made any sense, but his kiss was meaningful, in that relentless, focused way which was simply Childermass’s way of going about things.

Segundus was unaccustomed to being the recipient of such intensity. People rarely quarrelled with him, and no one had ever madly fallen in love with him - nobody would ever do probably; if most people just did not notice him, those who appreciated him often did it in a gentle, absent-minded fashion. So it was almost moving, certainly overwhelming, the kind of attention Childermass could reserve for every piece of him. To think that the man had so far applied himself only to a few areas of his body was enough to send Segundus’s mind spinning into a warm chaos of blurry desires.

All his nerves had been set on fire by few kisses and some inordinate rolling in the hay - which should not count though, since he had been still been protesting loudly at the rough way Childermass had pushed him onto the hay-covered ground. Segundus had tried to get to his feet, while he had been already picking strands from his hair and his clothes, but Childermass had joined in and tackled him to the ground without as much as a word.

That is what one gets from too much magic-dreaming.

They had been doing it for months; not more than twice, rarely thrice a month. Not for the ingredients, those were simple and cheap, but dreaming by magic always left them a little dull and slow for the rest of the day, and neither of them could so often allow himself to step lightly into that land of dreams which always lasted longer after their awakening. Besides, the spell was always Childermass’s and sometimes he was too tired; sometimes they had only a few moments together, even stretched by the dream. Segundus had tried to make it work, but he had failed: he could only keep his end of the bargain, then wait for Childermass to reach for him, to pull him into the dream through that thin, thin string of moor herbs - different from time to time when Childermass tried to improve it - but always the raven feather. The setting changed too; they had never got a room so far, but a patch of heather, a kitchen black with fumes, a narrow alley drowned in moonlight.

Yet dreams were a kind of waiting. Nothing happened in them, nothing concluded; endless beginnings of conversations and touches, which left them hungry for their endings.

“You see, if I held you like this,” Childermass said against his cheek, his lips ghosting over the blushing skin, “you’d have to bear my kisses.”

Segundus could not help a light, inebriated giggle. Childermass’s mouth was already on his face, his jaw, his neck, his tongue darting to lick skin and sweat, his breath tickling behind Segundus’s ear, quivering on his eyelashes. Childermass’s long fingers were wrapped around his wrists. Segundus could have shaken them off at any moment, but he liked - oh, he delighted in it! - the weight of Childermass’s hand bending his arms, the tension building in his shoulders with each breath, and how Childermass had to stretch himself upon him to keep his hands above his head, the whole length of his gaunt limbs coiling around Segundus.

“I’d bear more, _anything_ ,” Segundus moaned against Childermass’s mouth.

A bite, a sharper kiss, Childermass’s other hand caressing roughly his bare neck - Segundus’s neckcloth lay discarded on the hay beside his head.

“Don’t be careless sir,” Childermass chided him. “What if I took you on your word?”

Segundus made to answer - _I shall die if you do nothing!_ \- but he was being kissed, Childermass’s mouth fastened to his, his tongue pushing, licking, while his deft fingers found their way between the buttons, under the strings, until they could pinch his naked skin.

To think that he had feared to grow cold, cold to the bones in that ridiculous shed! So feverish did he feel now that he had completely forgotten the damned sleet which had surprised him on his way to the place of the appointment, and also how ugly and freezing the shed had looked when he had stepped inside, his clothes damp and his boots covered in mud. How disappointed, how angered he had been less than an hour before!

After Childermass had missed their first appointment at that shady inn by the southern course of the Ouse, abandoning Segundus to a spell of embarrassment and clumsiness which had left him poorer by the price of a broken urn, it had looked very unlikely that they could arrange another meeting so soon. Besides, Segundus’s disappointment, combined with the disagreeable memory of the landlord’s glower and the greasiness of the table, had quite discouraged him from attempting to meet Childermass when the man was clearly very taken up with whatever business had brought him North this time. Childermass’s brief note, avoiding explanation and barely offering an apology for his absence, had done little to soothe Segundus’s wounded pride.

More had been done by the sudden appearance of Childermass in Lady Peckett’s Yard, that very morning. His call had been unexpected, but announced by Mrs Pleasance’s girlish giggle at who knows what pleasantries she had just been offered. She had even taken it upon herself to show Childermass the way to Segundus’s lodgings, apparently unfazed by the dark look of the caller, who was exactly what she had often depicted in her mind and to her neighbours when comparing her lodger Mr Segundus’s respectable ways with the dangerous types who dealt in magic nowadays - street sorcerers and adventurers, grim wanderers, sinister vagrants. But there she had been, playfully reproaching John Childermass for a compliment he had just paid her, making him promise that he would sample her leavened loaf before leaving them alone on the landing. Segundus had been speechless and vaguely unsure if he was supposed to invite Childermass in.

Well, there had not been any need of deciding: Childermass had pushed him across the threshold, a hand on Segundus’s chest - had Childermass felt the violent jump of his heart against his ribcage? - and his mouth descending on his in a ferocious albeit short kiss. The door, still open behind them, had sharpened the thrill of it. As soon as Childermass had closed the door, composure had been regained, a few indifferent remarks on the weather exchanged (Segundus’s own method to confer an even tone to his voice), then Childermass had brazenly asked Segundus to meet him that very afternoon. The place for the new appointment was a certain repair where they would be far from indiscreet eyes and ears, where there might be magic done, and kisses given.

Except for what happened in dreams - always incomplete and somehow faded - they had not _dallied_ since the day after St. Stephen’s Day, still in the year 1810. Letters had been travelling back and forth, and surely the dreams accounted for something; yet it was quite a parsimonious way of cultivating their acquaintance. No, no, _acquaintance_ would not do: friendship of a sort, a kind of companionship cut out from the pattern of their very different lives, and then sewed together with rough, half-made stitches.   

“Ain’t you no longer eager to discuss Portugal?” Childermass enquired, his breath washing over the strip of skin the work of his fingers had revealed.

Still his fingers were pulling at the creases in Segundus’s shirt and waistcoat to uncover more of his chest, and where a new spot was bared there Childermass’s mouth landed, tasting the skin until Segundus thought it would break and bleed, too intense the pleasure he had from the softest of touches.

“ _You!_ ” Segundus hissed when Childermass found what he had been looking for - his left nipple.

He startled as Childermass’s bad-shaven cheek scratched it. He was truly shameless, practically rubbing himself on Segundus, stroking him with whichever part of his body tickled his fancy, using his wiry thighs as well as his nose, all ten his long fingers and his wicked tongue. Which was now circling the nipple, a hawk hunting for a soft, pink rabbit.

“It’d be a waste to let them make a soldier of you,” Childermass murmured lazily, then sucked the nipple into his mouth. “They’d starve you and harden you,” he continued, while he contemplated the result of his work as if he had not heard Segundus’s half-stifled, embarrassing groan.

“Childermass…”

“That’s hard enough for me,” Childermass stated, rolling the nipple between thumb and index, while his hips marked his pun pressing their erections together.

“Childermass!”

“You’re very distracting,” he sighed - it was something he had told Segundus before. He rose again to find Segundus’s reddened lips and to kiss them. “What is it, sir? Am I hurting you?” he asked gently, looking at Segundus, who could not talk yet, breathing very hard, his mind a muddle of desires. Again Childermass brushed the hair away from his face. “Here, I shall release you now,” he added, leaving Segundus’s wrists.

As soon as he was freed, Segundus embraced him and kissed him, pulling Childermass down, down, tight against him, no space between their bodies but what was enough to breathe, maybe not so much. Childermass let him do as he pleased, only observing him with heavy-lidded eyes, sometimes moving his hips with his.

“No more nonsense about Portugal then,” he said softly.

“I don’t mean to go,” Segundus admitted, while his fingers carded through Childermass’s hair.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

_Portugal_. It had been one of the reasons for Segundus’s ill-humour. Childermass had brought him a letter from Jonathan Strange - that being his formal task for his call at Lady Peckett’s Yard since he had not made a secret of the fact that he would be passing in town. Natural enough that he would do so during his stay at Hurtfew, and Jonathan had declared himself very glad that he could entrust his letter and Arabella’s note to Childermass rather than to the mail coach. The main subject of Strange’s letter had been Portugal: apparently he might have the chance of joining the troops in the Iberian Peninsula and study for himself the applications of magic to warfare. The missive was more brightly composed than any Segundus had received over the past few months, clearly owing to the fact that the prospect of going to Portugal had kindled Jonathan’s mind and that his imagination was already running ahead and devising new spells which could help the British against their old enemy Buonaparte.

Arabella’s note was kind but did not say anything about Portugal; the absence expressed her fears, and Segundus could not help sharing them. He had taken the news very badly indeed. He had seen the Stranges in July, when they had spent some time in their home in Shropshire and had invited him to join them there; then he had guessed how restless Strange had already grown, less than a year after having become Norrell’s first and only pupil. But Strange wanted more, he meant to do more magic, and do good with his magic; he lacked chances and his best ideas met Mr Norrell’s disapproval. This was what he had told Segundus in short.

Now, going to Portugal _did_ seem a little dramatic. But the more Segundus read Jonathan’s letter, the more he saw that he was seriously considering it. The idea of war did not appeal to Segundus. He had not seen one and he would rather not do so, and this realisation had made him feel quite dissatisfied with himself. He should have praised Jonathan’s sense of duty, his willingness to serve his country, his courage; in fact he was quite shocked at the idea of the dangers his friend could face in Portugal, alone. For indeed there was no talking of Mr Norrell doing the same, so Jonathan Strange would be the only magician in the British Army.  

These thoughts had accompanied Segundus while he walked to his appointment with Childermass and by the time he had reached the shed he had worked himself into a temper, which had soon turned into animosity against Childermass. If Childermass had noticed his bleak mood - _he has_ , whenever did Childermass not notice something? - he had asked nothing, taken nothing. He had helped Segundus take off his damp coat, let him pace by the fire while complaining about the weather, the state of the path, the damn place which looked as if it would crumble down at any moment, the horse which occupied the other half of the shed, and the dirt of it, the cold drafts, _what an awful idea!_ Not a word had escaped Childermass’s lips, he had only offered Segundus a cup of hot wine, staying there as if it did not matter one way or another. It had irked Segundus, this _sangfroid_.  

Childermass had not tried to touch him, when only that very morning he had seemed, for a moment, quite ready to devour Segundus there and then, in Mrs Pleasance’s very hearing. In the shed, Segundus had found himself thinking of when he had been a melancholic, soft boy of thirteen or fourteen and his father had caressed the idea of making a soldier of him - _being a soldier would cure him_ , he had stated, though it had been unclear which was the disease (Segundus suspected though that if his father might have never known what he was exactly, still he _knew_ in the way wolves know the weakest and the meekest of the flock). Still joining the army or the navy might have been his doing, or undoing.

So he had eventually asked Childermass if he had heard anything about Portugal.

“Where Lord Wellington is fighting,” Childermass had replied. “And where Strange might go.”

For some infuriating reason, Childermass had refused to share any opinion; worse, he had pretended to have no opinion at all on the matter of Jonathan Strange joining Wellington’s army, whereas Segundus knew very well that Childermass never lacked opinions, and he had certainly discussed the topic with Mr Norrell.

So, since Childermass would not tell him what was going on at Hanover Square, Segundus had stated that he found Strange’s resolution of going to Portugal an admirably courageous decision. One, indeed, that he could very well consider for himself. At least that had caught Childermass’s attention.

“You in the army?” he had said, his tone so contemptuous that Segundus had felt obliged to insist.

“You think me incapable of serving my country? A gentleman may made a career of it, and you know I have been thinking of finding a more suitable occupation for myself for some time…”

“We shall have you following Strange around then.”

“It’s a quite ordinary, common feeling for a man to want to fight for his country. Buonaparte…”

“Spare me the rhetoric,” Childermass had said, with what Segundus had recognised as annoyance - he had delighted in it, oh heavens! “What would you do in Portugal? Become his _aide-de-camp_ , cook for him, wash his breeches in brooks and puddles?”

“As his friend, I’d -” Segundus had started, quite ruffled by Childermass’s vulgar depiction. He had then straightened his back, trying to feel all the dignity of his statement. “We’re at war, sir. Any man may…”

“But you’re not a man like any other,” Childermass had interrupted him.

He had walked up to him, the shadows from the fire swirling on his face and black clothes. For a moment Segundus had heard only the sound of rain, half-snow, on the ground and the roof. Then Childermass had put his hand between his leg, grabbing him through his breeches.

“You do not feel like any other,” Childermass had said.

And Segundus, indeed, had felt himself grow hard against Childermass’s hand.

It had been then that Childermass had shoved him onto the hay and proceeded to ruin him thoroughly.

 

“They wouldn’t bloody know what to do with you in Portugal,” Childermass mused with a lopsided grin, while he pressed himself between Segundus’s spread thighs.

Segundus, though distracted by the thought of how this would feel if they were both undressed, pursued his lips and looked up at Childermass, whose hair was gloriously tangled now.

“While you do, obviously,” he said with some sarcasm.

“Obviously,” Childermass replied smugly.

He straightened himself, his hands slipping down Segundus’s thighs, grasping his knees while Segundus tried to get hold of him to pull him down again for his kisses. Childermass made a reproachful noise, then backed away, still using his hands and the weight of his body to keep Segundus where he was.

“Since you’re so keen on honour sir,” he began, looking down at Segundus, “I’ll keep my promise.”

“What prom-”

The word died on his mouth when Childermass yanked his breeches down. Oh, he had unbuttoned them before, his fingers teasing Segundus through the cloth, making his breath hitch; but now Childermass shoved the breeches down his thighs, damn the shoes and the stockings, baring him to the scratching of the hay and the blackness of his gaze. Segundus felt very clumsy all at once, with his legs half-trapped, his small-clothes joining the breeches and leaving him with his cock standing upright.

Instinctively he made to cover himself, but Childermass took both his hands and - what a foolish thing! - kissed them. And kissed them again, his mouth gone soft, his moustache tickling Segundus’s palms.

“You’re quite safe, sir,” Childermass told him, while he laid Segundus’s hands on the hay, and brought his own back to Segundus’s thighs. “Lie there, think of the good of the nation.”

“Childermass!”

He laughed, the scoundrel, the sound of it reverberating like a caress against the pale skin of Segundus’s inner thigh. For now Childermass had bent over him and was half-stretched on Segundus’s legs, one arm weighing on his stomach and the other hand taking hold of his cock. His eyes flicked up to Segundus, who did not know what to do with the heat he found in Childermass’s gaze. It baffled him, how Childermass could look at him so, as if he wanted to get - to get _under, inside, deeper,_ as if not even this was enough to satisfy whatever hunger Segundus had started in him _._ Then Childermass’s eyes turned down, his weight shifted, and his mouth wrapped around Segundus’s cock.

He had been offered something of the sort before, when he was a young man, and there had been a certain gentleman willing to donate him a book on magic if only Segundus would let him put his mouth on him. _On it_. Segundus had refused, fairly scared at how easily the elderly gentleman had seen through him (he could not think that he was in the habit of making such a proposal to any man showing at his door looking for books!), but more so at the dirtiness of it. Now he had entirely forgotten his hygienical concerns.

Oh, it was not dirty. And if it was, it was delightfully so, like Childermass’s harsh accent, like his laugh at Segundus’s embarrassment, like the hay they were crushing under them.

He felt Childermass’s lips tighten around him, the pressure of his tongue; but also his fingers upon his waistcoat and the hair falling down on his thigh. All of it filled Segundus with warmth, a taste of honey running through his veins, slow and golden, and also - oh, Childermass’s _magic_! Not that Childermass was truly doing any magic now, but Segundus suddenly realised what his magic tasted like: it tasted like this, like rainy moors, damp clothes and damp hair, horse, ink and old books, and the vast, vast sky where clouds and ravens sailed alike. And it also worked like this, first taking Segundus higher, higher, his head so light that it could just escape through the roof like a feather caught in the wind, then pulling him down, a tug, a string around his heart and his cock, plunging him right into Childermass’s mouth.

Segundus’s eyes opened wide when Childermass gave a soft suck. Segundus could not help it: his hands sought Childermass’s hair, and at the same time he looked down at him. He touched the hair, then his fingers pressed gently on the head, and that was when Childermass finally lifted his gaze - no more than a flutter of eyelashes, then the dark eyes meeting Segundus’s. He could see how Childermass’s mouth stretched around his cock and the brightness of his lips, now damp; damp his hair, too, from the rain and the sweat.

Childermass’s eyes fell closed and Segundus felt Childermass’s moan straight on his cock; he took a shaky breath when he saw that Childermass was now rolling a little aside, making space for his own hand to move down, between his own legs. Segundus could not see what he was doing, but he guessed the frenzied work of the fingers trying to undo the breeches, and he would have liked to help, but he did not know how to manage that without removing his cock from Childermass’s mouth. Which was the same difficulty Childermass faced, since he was clearly trying to reach for his own cock and suck on another one at the same time.

Segundus had to chew on his lower lip to keep himself from giggling at the sight of Childermass’s frown, so much more comical since his mouth was otherwise occupied and could not play any part in the scowling. Childermass must, at last, relent a little, let it slip out of his mouth while only his tongue pressed against the thin slit at the top, as he unbuttoned the breeches.

“ _Bloody_ \- ” he breathed, leaving Segundus alone for the shortest moment.

Segundus was almost on the verge of complaining, the hilarity still on his tongue and in his stomach, yet his cock ached for Childermass’s pretty lips. Childermass had finally got rid of the impediments though, so Segundus had no time to protest - he threw his head back, eyes screwed shut at the warmth engulfing his erection again.

He could now feel exactly how _that_ was affecting Childermass: the echo of the fast-paced, brusque way he was stroking himself, the frenetic undulation of their bodies as if they had been just caught in a storm, the choked moans which tightened the grasp of Childermass’s lips upon him. And the thought that Childermass was enjoying it! That he participated in Segundus’s pleasure, that he found that as exciting, as maddening!

It was that marvellous thought, of the other cock which was being frantically stroked, that aroused him to such lengths. And he was almost beyond himself with need, sharp and naked, to the point that his hips rose instinctively, without even knowing he was doing it, but feeling that he had to, he had to…

“It’s unfair to fuck a man’s mouth without asking nor warning sir,” Childermass told him, pushing him down, still touching himself but no longer Segundus’s cock.

A raw, hurt sound, and Segundus realised that he had been the one making it.

“I’m sorry, very sorry…” he babbled, his fingers in Childermass’s hair - oh, wasn’t it beautiful, beautiful?

Childermass grinned, his cheeks fairly red, his eyes so luminous that Segundus almost came.

“It’s fine,” he said huskily, his hand squeezing Segundus’s hip. “Be a good boy now.”

Again Segundus suspected that such endearments were not so different from those Childermass used with his horse and felt a little insulted by it, but he could not say a single word as Childermass was now using the pressure of his hand and the firm weight of his gaze to guide the stuttering of his hips into a kind of rhythm. _This is how you fuck a man’s mouth with his permission_ , Childermass’s roguish, amused gaze seemed to say.

Then his eyes grew unfocused, though Segundus could see that Childermass was still trying to watch him, to keep his eyes open, all-seeing, but then his eyelids trembled, all of him shivered and his groan was stifled by Segundus’s cock in his mouth. Childermass had reached his end, and the fact that he had done so while…

Segundus could not help it: he gave a cry and spurted right into Childermass’s mouth, before he could ask if _this_ was so very, very unfair - oh, but it was, surely, only he could not do otherwise, and he was flushing at the pleasure and the shame of it, still throbbing and aching, the thought of his seed  - no, not just the thought, for he could see it on Childermass tongue and lips when the man took his mouth away.

“Oh, forgive me, I’m so sorry!” Segundus said stupidly.

“You’re not sorry,” Childermass groaned, straightening his back all at once, and thus giving Segundus a glimpse of his undone breeches and the cock peeking from the folds of cloth. “But I might forgive you.”

And with that Childermass let himself fall heavily onto Segundus, his hands - his _dirty_ hands! - crushing and stroking everywhere, his mouth - wet, wet and salty - covering his without warning. Segundus felt more than a little out of breath, but bore it all and discovered that his own taste, though not wholly pleasant, was an exciting thing once he thought of why it was in Childermass’s mouth. So he chased it, licking at the man’s lips with a certain vigour, his own hands feeling him all over.

Childermass seemed strangely pleased by it, to the point that he made himself more comfortable, lying on his side and turning Segundus to face him. The shed was growing colder and darker, but Segundus could still see Childermass’s features clearly if he stayed close enough. And he could see him through his breeches.

“Can I?” he asked shyly, moving his hand down.

“It won’t rise again so soon,” Childermass warned him, though the corner of his mouth curved slightly.

“It isn’t for that,” Segundus muttered, avoiding Childermass’s inquisitive gaze.

“Do as it pleases you then,” Childermass hummed.

“It’s only that you’ve never let me…and I thought…”

It was only half-hard, the skin unexpectedly soft and a little wrinkled. _A good shape_ , Segundus decided, while his fingertips explored the wiry hair around it.

“You’ve thought of touching me,” Childermass said, moving closer still.

“Yes?” Segundus’s voice sounded uncertain, but he was feeling the contours of Childermass’s stones and the dampness left by his seed. Childermass sighed and with a swift motion pressed him against the hay.

“It’d be very good to have you the whole night, sir. I’d become hard for you again,” he said. “Cannot,” he grunted, lifting himself and getting to his feet. He offered his hand to Segundus. “Come now. It must be late enough, too dark to see anything. I’ll take you on Brewer, if you like it, Mr Segundus, and carry you as far as the wall.”

“Wouldn’t it be a detour for you, Childermass?”

It was, and yet - when they had cleaned themselves and their clothes as best as they could - Segundus found himself on Brewer, the sturdy horse which had been sharing the shed with them and had borne witness to their _tumbling_. Segundus would be later ashamed to admit that he had blushed under Brewer’s mild gaze. Childermass mounted on the horse behind him, his hands on the reins and his coat flapping against Segundus’s thighs; he helped him keep himself steady on the beast while they crossed the most treacherous grounds of the moor, and hummed a wordless tune Segundus had never heard.


	11. The Women of Starecross

_September 21 st, 1817_

 

“Mr Childermass?”

He did not move, nor speak, so she thought that he had not heard her, and she was about to call him again when he made a silent gesture to invite her to come forward. Lucy carried the tray to the small table they had taken from downstairs, for the other surfaces of Mr Segundus’s room were covered in books and spells, and Mrs Strange had convinced Mr Levy and Mr Hadley-Bright that the table from the parlour would better serve Mr Segundus upstairs for the time being.

Cook had put seed bread, jam, fresh tea and milk on the tray. She had complained about the waste of her efforts, as she usually did, but she never failed to deliver in Lucy’s hands a wholesome meal, just in case Mr Segundus would be so kind as to wake up from his slumber. _And for that Childermass too_ , Cook always said, in that tone of hers which meant that she liked Childermass but she would not have minded giving him a good rapping for staying away from Starecross for months.

“And only coming back when poor Mr Segundus…!” Cook often remarked, waving her wooden ladle.

“But he did come back,” Charles loyally answered then. “In time, lucky enough.”

Lucy never said anything on the subject: first of all because she was learning the advantages of keeping her ideas to herself until she was sure that they were proper _opinions_ and not just passing thoughts; secondly, because she feared that Mr Childermass would hear her, the way he always seemed to hear everything and everyone, no matter if he had not left Mr Segundus’s room in days.

“Mr Childermass?” Lucy called again, twisting her hands because she was not sure that Mr Childermass would be glad to hear her speak.

He seemed to consider anyone and anything an unwelcome distraction from his task of watching over Mr Segundus, and though Lucy appreciated the sentiment and Mr Childermass had never been rude to her, it made her feel embarrassed, as if she had walked in on them. She did not know what _exactly_ made her so shy in their presence, but she thought it had something to do with the way they acted around each other, as if they were having their own private conversation (the fact that Mr Segundus was now asleep did not change it in the least).

“Speak, girl.”

“I think it was ‘round midnight, sir,” Lucy began, now flattening the creases of her apron and not quite looking at him, “I saw ‘em creepers down my window, and shake it hard. I was awake, dunno why sir, I think the magic that makes me do it, staying awake without knowing it. I was flummoxed sir, but ain’t gunna let them creepers in, so I used the spell you teached me.”      

She coloured, for she knew that she had spoken very badly and hurriedly, and Mr Segundus would not be pleased with such bad wording, but he might not hear her at all, and Mr Childermass was not one to reproach her for her wording, for he knew how it was.

“I know you did,” Mr Childermass answered. She lifted her head and saw that he was looking at her quite gently. “It was good. You did get your sleep after that?”

“Like a clemmy, sir,” she grinned. “It gets me tired to do magic.”

“You’ll get used to it.”           

“But you sir…the creepers?” she dared asking.

“It was a hard night,” Mr Childermass admitted after a moment of silence.

She could see that in his face, pale and tight like certain stones one found in the moor, as white as bones of old beings. He had dark shadows under his eyes and his hair was untidy. He was in his shirt and breeches, and the shirt was very clean, but only because Mrs Strange had made him change it the day before.

“I won’t have you going around like a madman. We’ve got Vinculus for that,” she had said firmly.

And Childermass had changed his shirt, which was not entirely a good sign because it meant that he had not done as he pleased, as he always did, so it must be very bad indeed.

“Did you call the gentlemen, Mr Childermass?”

“Didn’t have the bloody time,” he sighed, pushing himself on his feet.

For a moment Lucy feared that he would fall, so unstable he looked, but he reached the table and poured himself a cup of tea. Strong and dark, just as he liked it; Cook had seen to that. He drank, but his eyes ran again to the bed where Mr Segundus slept. More than two days he had been sleeping, since Childermass had taken him home; and Childermass had not slept and hardly eaten for two days.

Besides, there had been magic done by all the gentlemen in the house; Lady Pole said that she was almost going mad with it and Mrs Strange said nothing of it, but her lovely mouth grew very tight and pale at times. The young lady, Miss Greysteel, seemed to stand it all better than anyone in the house. Although she disliked staying in Mr Segundus’s room, she was always very active and bright, and she kept an eye on Mr Vinculus, who had grown very restless.

Lucy appreciated her help, yet she could not bring herself to really like Miss Greysteel. Not that she was not good - she was, and she looked quite pretty besides - but she had no idea, she was very _foreign_ in Lucy’s opinion, a word that she had taken from Charles (who had meant it as a compliment though). Lady Pole, _she_ was something, oh she was the beautiful one; and she had remembered Lucy from when she had stayed at the house and was sick from magic. Not at first, at first she had come to Starecross and had acted as if she could not recognise any of the servants; later though she had thanked Lucy for she had been quite good to her at the time. _She gives herself such airs_ , Cook said, but she said it in awe. Charles insisted that in London there were many women as beautiful as her and more. Lucy and Cook could say nothing to this because they had never been to London while Charles had visited it several times, so he knew everything about the ladies and the gentlemen, and how people enjoyed themselves and how they wore their clothes.

Yet, Lucy found that Lady Pole was the most good-looking woman she had ever seen. She had reasons to believe she was the only one thinking it, because the gentlemen far preferred the company of Mrs Strange and Miss Greysteel; and Lady Pole did not like to spend too much time with them. She liked to be alone or to take walks with Mrs Strange, and she seemed to like Mr Segundus particularly. This was why Lucy had been a little jealous of her at the beginning, now that she was no longer a patient but a guest, but really she could not feel so for very long when Lady Pole was so _different_.

She might no longer be sick like she had once been, but she retained a certain something, as if she could disappear overnight leaving only a faint scent of musk behind her and a white nightgown. She was a woman like the ones in the tale, and Lucy thought that she might have dreamt of her at night.

As if the very thought of her had summoned Lady Pole, she entered the room just a moment before Lucy could bring herself to leave it.

“No sign?” she asked bluntly, looking toward the bed before turning to face Mr Childermass and Lucy. “Good morning Lucy,” she added, as if she had just seen her.

But she gave Lucy a smile, and that was enough for Lucy to forgive her immediately. She made a clumsy curtsey, even if Lady Pole had told her that there was no need at all (but one could see that it amused her, so Lucy did it anyway).

“Have you slept, with the magic in the house?” she enquired.

“Yes ma’am. I mean that I woke up and did as Mr Childermass told me, but after I slept.”

It was not a secret that Lucy was allowed to do some magic: Mr Childermass himself had informed them so that Lucy did not have any problem with taking her share of ingredients from their common reserve. No one had dared saying a word against it, though Lucy could say that Mr Purfois had been very surprised, even annoyed; and Charles envied her, even if he could not bring himself to say it. Mr Levy had been kind though, telling her that he was glad that there would be another student of magic in the house, for otherwise their minds would grow numb from too much discussing only among themselves.  

“Good for you. I couldn’t sleep until this morning,” Lady Pole complained with a grimace. “I didn’t like it at all, Childermass. What was that?”

“The damn thing still tries.”

“But you killed it,” she insisted vehemently. “You cut it and you burnt it.”

“And that would’ve worked very well if it was a real plant, my lady,” Childermass pointed out with some sarcasm. “What you felt tonight was its ghost, if you like.”

“Have you banished it? I didn’t hear the gentlemen…”

“Did it myself, there was no time, he was choking on it.”

Lucy’s eyes grew wide. She stole a glance at Lady Pole and saw that she had turned pale as well, but she would not let herself be scared by Childermass’s talking.

“Very well then,” Lady Pole said after a while. “Is this ghost likely to come back?”

“It might, but not in daytime I think.”

“Then you go to bed,” she ordered.

“I would prefer not to, my lady.”

Lady Pole’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m sure you see how irrational this is, Childermass. You’re deadly tired, intoxicated with magic, barely taking anything apart from tea. How long before you fail him?”

Mr Childermass’s mouth tightened, then he offered Lady Pole the coldest smile while he retook his seat in the corner, from where he could keep his eyes on Mr Segundus. A pile of books and scribbled papers were on the table, within Childermass’s reach.   

“I thank you for your concern, Lady Pole.”

“Oh damn you,” Lady Pole said, making Lucy shudder at the sound of it. He was afraid that her shock at hearing the lady talk like this had showed on her face, because both the other two looked at her. Lucy would have gladly left then, if only she had not thought her fleeing would annoy them more than anything. Lady Pole returned to Childermass. “You’re being selfish. Can’t you see that the girl has to take your food upstairs thrice a day? Not that you consider her and Cook’s efforts worth your time, since you eat almost nothing.”

“But it’s not a heavy work for me, ma’am!” Lucy protested.

Lady Pole looked at her with something akin to exasperation, but it was Childermass who spoke first.

“I can get my food myself from downstairs. And his too.”

“Oh, but you’re worse than the rest of them!” Lady Pole gasped. “And still trying to _sacrifice_ yourself.”

“At least your ladyship has nothing to reproach herself for this time,” Childermass replied quickly.

Lucy blinked, a little confused by their talking; but not so much, for it was not the first time they talked this way before others and obviously something had gone wrong between them, some time before. It was not Lucy’s habit to enquire about someone’s past; she thought that she had a good deal of past of her own, but she would not like to talk to Lady Pole or anyone about the difficulties of keeping one’s savings through a long winter, or the way her knees and elbows were scratched red from cleaning floors and furniture, or how she had thought that she would marry a cousin of her, and now she could not think of him without a shudder. So if she was entitled to keep her past to herself and think of her future, they were too.

“It might be that I’ll have something to reproach myself for, if I let you do as you please, Childermass,” the lady was telling him. “I’m sure that even considering all the things you must answer for, you might find it in yourself to leave him in someone else’s care for a few hours. You need sleep and know that any of the gentlemen would be happy to take your place; Mrs Strange and I would check on him too, so he wouldn’t be left alone.”

“I’m the best magician in the house though,” he said calmly.

“The most presumptuous for sure. But you’re also becoming very stupid, Childermass. This way you’ll kill yourself and him in the process.”

“I mean to keep both of us very alive, your ladyship,” he grunted. Then he looked at his hands, and Lucy wondered if he had felt them tremble. “I shall eat,” he said, clenching his hands and then planting them on the armrests. “And if Mr Levy would join me, I wouldn’t throw him out of the room. I shall stay here, but I might close my eyes for a while.”

“I’ll tell Mr Levy then,” Lady Pole replied, and she was wise enough not to show her relief at the small victory - she was very good at this, showing you how ardent and furious she could grow like a fairy in an old tale, and then be as sly as a market woman, making you pay twice what you had meant when you had set out of your door. She was a woman who got what she wanted, Lucy thought, no matter that she had seen her as a patient at Starecross. “You, girl, stay here and make sure that he eats, and not feed the birds outside.”

“Yes ma’am,” Lucy curtseyed again, her cheeks pink with a pleasure she could not name.

Lady Pole nodded, but her eyes sought Childermass once more.

“I can’t stand pitying you,” she muttered as she left.

Childermass cursed under his breath.

 

*

 

_June 29 th, 1817_

 

Stripes of sun fell across the moor; where the light touched the earth, it shone green.

It made her think of the plums she used to eat in Italy, when she stripped them of their dark purple - almost black - skin with a small knife and they shewed their pulp. The air was warm where there was sun, but the clouds left patches of shadows where she shivered and tightened the shawl around her shoulders. She saw Mr Segundus sitting on a boulder: his back was straight, but his gaze was on the grass and the ferns around his feet.

He had not heard her coming.

“Mr Segundus,” she called gently, as she walked toward him.

“Mrs Strange!” he exclaimed when he turned to see her. He stood, then stepped forward to greet her. His hair was mussed by the wind, his clear eyes a little unfocused, as if he had just been shaken out of a reverie.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Arabella said, and then smiled reassuringly because she had seen how his countenance had suddenly grown worried at the thought that something might have happened at Starecross. She gestured toward the boulder. “But I did not mean to inconvenience you. Here, let’s sit together if you don’t mind my company.”

Segundus shook his head, smiling gently, and they both sat on the boulder overlooking the moor.

“You must forgive me if I left so early this morning, but I felt that I was in need of a walk. I believe that physical exercise does the mind and the spirit some good, and should not be disregarded.”

“I fear that most of the weight of Starecross is on your shoulders, Mr Segundus.”

“Oh no, I beg you,” he protested, his cheeks growing pink. “It’s really not so, Mrs Strange. Every person in the house contributes, each one to the extent of their own capacities; for it’s an enterprise in need of a far greater effort than anything a single man may attempt. But you must excuse the habits of our small community, which may not be what you and Miss Greysteel had been expecting.”

“I think that Miss Greysteel is faring very well, all things considered. She’s a curious sort of girl, well-cultured, but with an eagerness which exceeds her intellect. Starecross might give her what she lacked since I returned and she was no longer invested with the responsibility of guarding a mirror: in other words, a _purpose_. As for myself I don’t know what I was expecting when I decided to come here, except a friend,” she murmured.

“That you’ve found. Now, how can I serve you? I think you said you were looking for me.”

Arabella did not mean to fall silent, and yet her eyes were caught in the play of lights and shadows on the moor. She would not have liked to admit it, but she felt a foreigner in Yorkshire. It was not just the landscape, whose bleakness not even the sun could dispel, but a reticence in the people which seemed to be born out of the frugality of the scenery surrounding them. A few colours, few lines, the earth and the sky. She was being superficial, she knew, there was more than her eyes could see in so little time; and yet she felt that these good people - for they were good - were somehow different from the people in the South of England.

She was a Midlander herself, and yet Shropshire felt like another country in comparison.

Even Mr Segundus, for all his gentle manners and humble soul, harboured secrets. She believed that he could not help it, because she also believed that he was a man who despised secrecy and lies, and yet he did no trust her the way she trusted him. It hurt, but she could not force his hand.

“I could not help wonder if it was me who caused a rift between you and Mr Childermass,” she began in a calm voice. “You may have disagreed over my request concerning my husband’s stay in the Pillar.”

“I’m afraid, Mrs Strange, that we should rather describe it as an _imprisonment_.”

“You may, if you like it,” Arabella conceded with a gracious movement of her head to conceal the way the word bit at her heart. “I prefer to think him happy enough in the Pillar; he _asked_ me to think him happy.”

“But what happiness there might ever be when you’re not with him?” Mr Segundus asked with something akin to agitation in his voice. Then, upon seeing the effect of his question on her face - for this time she had been unable to hide her fears - he relented. “I apologise, I've spoken out of turn.”

“No, no,” she reassured him, hoping that her voice would be firm enough. She did not mean to reproach him: she had chosen that hurt herself after all, the very moment she had decided to abide by Jonathan’s wish. “Only I believed that it was Mr Childermass who disagreed with me, not you. Or is it both of you?”

“I don’t know what to think, Mrs Strange. I’m afraid it’s not a matter of agreeing or disagreeing with you, but I’d like for you to consider me your friend nonetheless.”

“I didn’t mean to put you in such a position,” she said, as honestly as she could. She had not meant it, but she had known what would come of it. And she was tormented by the unbearable thought that she might become a burden for her friends and family, a widow everyone would feel compelled to pity and comfort. “Heaven knows I need you, but I could not ignore him either. For better or for worse, he’s my husband. _He was._ Oh, I know hardly more than you do!” Arabella admitted, her hands tearing at the blades of grass.

“I think sometimes we must accept _not knowing_. And let Time do his work: we were so ignorant only ten years ago, children indeed, all of us. Then I thought that Gilbert Norrell knew more on magic than any man alive; I still believe it, but you see that it was so very little compared to what we now have a chance to know. Only I expected that we would have more time to learn and that…” his voice softened, words fell into silence and his eyes sought who knows what ghost in the shape of the clouds passing over their heads. “Oh, to think that I’ve never had the chance to tell Mr Strange that I’m a magician now!”

“But you are,” she said with a soft smile. “A good one, they say. How do you feel?”

“It is…” he half-closed his eyes, frowning slightly as the sun caressed his face. “Not what I expected. There’s a kind of hurt in it and it requires far more work than I would have thought it possible. One must study and read, and experiment, and that _continuously_. Yet there’s joy, a wholesomeness…forgive me, you must have heard this before, and better put.”

“I may. You think I despise magic?” she asked suddenly.

“You may have a right to that, considering the price you’re paying for the magic done by others.”

_We women always pay for what is done by others_ , she told herself. But she shook her head.

“I don’t. I don’t care for it the way you do, or Jonathan does. But you see, one magician was enough in our marriage; he did not need me to be a magician, he needed a wife.”

“Were you happy with being what he needed?” Segundus asked hurriedly, as if he could not help himself.

“Sometimes.” There was a small house, far away. She could barely guess that it was a house and not a darker patch of heather, a heap of stones, the shadow of a cloud; she had once wished to live in a house like that one, to know no happiness behind that of a well-sorted marriage. “Still you haven’t answered me: was it me who came between you and Mr Childermass?”

“No, pray don’t worry about it,” he begged her, turning his eyes to the moor as if he meant to escape her gaze.

“Then was it a coincidence that he left only a few days after my arrival? I know it’s the first time he has stayed away from Starecross for so long, therefore I can’t help thinking that it must have had something to do with me, even if I cannot honestly complain about his behaviour. He has never been anything but polite to me, and I’m aware that my husband valued him, especially before we were separated. I remember that then he used to speak harshly of Mr Norrell, but not of Childermass. I think he liked him.”

“Yes, I think it made it quite clear in his letters to me as well,” Mr Segundus admitted.

“And you like him too. Indeed, I recall that the first time I heard of Mr Childermass was from you.”

“We’ve known each other for a long time. I have learnt to appreciate some of his qualities, but I’m afraid that we differ in so many ways that we often misunderstand each other.”

“I was under the impression that you understood each other very well,” she said, a little surprised. It was one of the first things she had learnt of Starecross upon her arrival - that if their squabbles were a great source of amusement for the entire household, the way they could work together was a paragon. “This kind of community you’ve at Starecross, isn’t it your and Mr Childermass’s very creation?” she asked. “I was led to believe that it was your design as much as his. Surely magicians look at you and him as the masters of the enterprise, and few voices rise against your leadership in the work of deciphering the King’s Letters. Apparently your differences have worked well together so far.”

Mr Segundus looked at her in what she recognised as amazement, as if the whole matter was new to him.

“It did not go exactly like that, the setting of what Starecross is nowadays…” he mumbled. “I suppose that my regard for Mr Childermass’s work did help.”

“And his for yours, he keeps you in the highest esteem.”

“On this you’re mistaken, Mrs Strange,” he said in a quiet tone.

Arabella said nothing, but thought that sooner or later they would all be ruined by this English horror of vanity. If once she had deemed her husband too vain, barely able to rebuff and dismiss praises and flattery as he should have done, nowadays she believed that he might have lived better than many others after all. _It’s a matter of belief_ , she had told Mr Segundus speaking of magic, many years ago: belief in himself, rather than anything else, had led Jonathan to her, across worlds, inventing a magic which was not there before. But she also knew that Mr Segundus would not be convinced of what he could still not see about himself[1].

“I wouldn’t have intruded, Mr Segundus, if I had not thought of being responsible for Mr Childermass’s hasty departure from Starecross. And if I did not think that you look unhappy since he left.”

For a moment she thought that he would stomp away, annoyed at her brazen comment. He only shifted a little uncomfortably on the boulder.

“I believe that no magician in England today is unaware of Mr Childermass’s merits and contributions to the revival of the English magic. It is natural that I - that _we_ \- would deeply feel his absence, should he leave Starecross for good; but I have never expected that someone with Mr Childermass’s abilities and ambitions may content himself with Starecross, so you see that I’m not surprised.”

“I thought that he’d come back at the end of summer…”

“Oh, he might. If he said that he would, he will,” Mr Segundus nodded with a vague smile. “For a while though. Then he’ll leave again. Truly it’s his way to live; you should remember from the time when he served Mr Norrell and one could hardly guess when and where one would meet him again. I’m sure many suspected that he could be in more places at once,” he said, but the lightness of his tone sounded off.

“Well, he doesn’t have a master anymore,” Arabella pointed out.

“Maybe. But it’s in his nature.”

_Travelling or serving?_ Arabella wondered, but did not ask.

“I never liked Mr Norrell,” she said instead. “I like him even less now that I know what he did to damage my husband’s reputation, in my own name. It might be that Mr Norrell was ill-advised, but Jonathan was his pupil and his friend; he should have tried to reconcile at least. Jonathan should have done that too, I suppose. This feud between them has brought too much sorrow upon us all. I hope it won’t be the same with you and Mr Childermass.”

“I’m not a Mr Strange and he’s not a Mr Norrell.”

“Yet he left.”

“I didn’t send him away!” he snapped. She saw the remorse on his face on resorting to such a harsh tone.

“I don’t mean to suggest that. Only that I think he’ll return if you were to ask him.”

“Why should I ask him to abandon his work? Here at Starecross we shall manage, so there’s no need…”

_But you miss him!_ , she would have liked to tell him, since he seemed unable to see that. She could not, it would be too great a breach of trust if she threw the feeling right into his face. So she sighed.

“Only I see Mr Levy is keeping Mr Childermass informed, and I thought that a letter by your hand would do much to mend your disagreement.”

“I thank you for your advice.”

She was sure that he would not follow it though. She might have argued against his obstinacy, but she felt sure that she would not have achieved anything; he must do as he felt, and pay the price for it, however high. After all, if she had forgiven Jonathan’s unreasonableness, there was no reason for her to judge Mr Segundus’s so harshly. Besides, she knew too little of Mr Childermass to be sure that Mr Segundus had no reasons to prefer him gone - well, not _prefer_ , but see the good that might come of his absence.

“If you don’t mind it, sometimes I’d like to talk with you about Jonathan.”

Arabella had not thought that she would say that, but now that she could hear herself saying it, she knew it was exactly how she felt; she had not allowed herself to think of him for the past few weeks, but it was tearing at her soul. She did not mean to spend her nights crying and her days in the past rather than in the present, but starving herself of the thought of him, of the good memories, and even of the sorrow would harm her gentleness and her sensitivity in the long run. She took a deep breath and continued.

“Not now, maybe, and not often, but sometimes I’d like to remember him. And I’d return the favour, should there be anything you may want to talk about. Magicians have a habit, Mr Segundus, of growing very lonely, even nowadays when there’s so many.”

 

*

 

_June 28 th, 1817_

 

“Should I be surprised that you’d dare shew yourself here? I’m not, though. I know what you’re capable of, Childermass.”

She forced herself to relax, despite the fact that the very sight of him reminded her of Norrell and what he had done to her. What _they_ had done to her. If the man was embarrassed by her welcome, he did not shew it; but she knew better - that he was not a man to be encumbered by such a feeling.

“I’m glad to find your ladyship’s spirit so restored,” he answered with a bow.

Emma snorted. It was not a polite thing to do, and her younger self would have been horrified at the idea of offering such an answer even to the lowest of servants. She did not care so much nowadays.

“Still, even if I’m not amazed at your nerve, I wonder what Sir Walter was thinking when he sent you to me.”

“I was told you agreed with Sir Walter to let a magician call on you, to look for any sign of… _relapse_.”

“Only so that he would stop pestering me,” Emma replied, frowning. “I told him that I’d have Mr Segundus of Starecross Hall, but now _you_ ’re here.”

“When I heard of the letter your husband wrote to Mr Segundus I offered my services instead. Though Mr Segundus would have accepted the invitation, I had business in London,” Childermass explained in his measured and yet supercilious manner she remembered so well. “Mr Segundus agreed that I might visit you in his place. If you won’t be satisfied with me, you’ll only have to let him know that. But you shall find that my knowledge of your case competes with his; I was, after all, _part of it_.”

She bit on her tongue to keep herself from replying too swiftly and hotly. She would not amuse him so, not when she could see that he was observing her with that rapacious gaze of his, searching her for a reason to call her _insane_ \- had they not done that before, after all? And yes, John Childermass had been part of it. It was true that he was again him that he had arranged for her to be kept at Starecross. She had thought that it would be another, worse prison; instead, it had delivered her after so much suffering.

That had been Mr Segundus’s doing though. She refused to acknowledge Childermass’s merits, no matter if he had recovered her finger. He had done that less for her than for himself, for the _magic_ of it, and for he was a man who would always play his part to the most extreme of consequences. It was a fortunate chance that he had changed his side in time to save her, but she refused to be grateful to him. He was not a kind man, and he had been around Norrell too long to be much better than him.

“Here, this is Mr Segundus’s letter for your ladyship,” Childermass added, exhibiting the missive.

She did not step forward to take it, so - after a glance at her face - he left it on the table between them. She picked up the letter then, opened it, and read it quickly. She did not get the details, but the mood of it - gentle words, a sincere concern for her health, a few digressions as it was Mr Segundus’s wont, the reasons for Mr Childermass’s visit.

“I see. I received Mrs Strange’s letter as well, a few days ago,” Emma told him. “From her previous letter I had thought that she would be Mr Segundus’s guest at Starecross and hers would be a visit to an old friend; now I guess that there’s more to it, if Starecross is this sort of _headquarters_ for you magicians.”

“Mr Segundus would rather not speak of it in military terms, your ladyship.”

“I won’t ask you what terms _you_ ’d prefer. Tell me this though: are you Mr Segundus’s servant now?”

For a moment she thought that he had not heard her, so perfectly still he was. Then she saw something in his eyes, the kind of blank softness of someone following his own thoughts; it offended her, that he could so ignore her - she would not have that, she had sworn that she would no longer have that from anyone.

Emma took a step, without knowing if she would go as far as to slap him or just spat in his face (when had she ever become such a woman to spit into a man’s face? Well, she had the answer: the moment she had come back from the land of dead); but before she took another, he spoke.

“I’m nothing to him.”

Then, as if he had suddenly grown bored with their conversation, Childermass went to the table, put his saddlebag on it, and started taking several things out of it - paper, ink, quills, but also several small pouches, a snuff box, a few strings.

“Now, unless you mean to refuse, I shall make my tests, your ladyship.”

Emma felt a little deflated. She did not know what she had hoped for: maybe to annoy him, since she had heard Sir Walter say that Childermass had left Norrell’s service after some violent disagreement. She was not sure that it could be true, the two of them were accomplices, and she had seen - oh, she had seen it! - how Childermass could take a bullet for Norrell. He would have died for him, plain and simple. She doubted that that kind of loyalty would just disappear over a quarrel, no matter how apparently irredeemable.    

“If I told you I despise you, would it change anything, Childermass?” she asked airily.

“No,” a pause. “If I told you I’ve never despised you for what you tried to do, would it change anything, your ladyship?”

“No,” Emma replied merrily. She felt lighter, they knew where they stood at least.

She sat in the armchair, watching lazily as he worked with his things, his _ingredients_ (it was all talking of magic, and all things concerning magic, the town was _feverish_ with it and one could hardly go to dances or to the park without hearing people of any class and education talk about magic).

“How’s Mrs Strange?” she asked him.

“Hasn’t she been writing to you?” Childermass did not even turn his head to look at her.

“There’s always a difference between what one writes or says and what one feels. You’ve seen her.”

“Briefly. I left shortly after her arrival at Starecross.”

“I know she travels with a Miss Greysteel. I’d be very curious to meet her, I’ve heard she met Mr Strange in Venice, and that’s how she came to be Mrs Strange’s friend. But indeed it would be Starecross that I’d like to see again.”

_How bizarre_. She had not thought it before; and yet it had come upon her, as suddenly as a whim, but so powerfully that she was made dizzy by her desire to leave the house, where she lived with Sir Walter and yet separated from him, never quite talking to him, never quite letting him near. She felt sorry for him sometimes and she knew that he quite loved her; only it was not the way she wanted to be loved - oh, she did not even know _if_ she wanted to be loved by him or the likes of him.

“Have I surprised you?” she asked Childermass.

“No, I cannot say you have. We always return to the places of our sorrow, like fingering a wound not quite healed.” She flushed at his words, but before she could think of a biting reply, he continued. “Now, tell me. Have you had any difficulty?”

“I hate it here,” she grumbled. “Would that do?”

He seemed amused this time.

“It doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t believe you anyway. If you were enchanted, you may be unable to talk of it; and if you were possessed, you would lie to me.”

“That’s a very grim point of view, Childermass,” she pointed out. “That’s how you deal with your fellow magicians? Such mistrust. Yet you trusted him for a long time, your Norrell.”

“He was my master.”

“What a splendid alibi, Childermass,” she chided him. “How many terrible things did you do in his name?”

“I’m sure your ladyship had given it more thought than I have,” the brute replied, leaving her positively seething.

Did he really think that she _cared_ about him so much to give any though to how wearisome the work of his conscience must be? Yet nowadays she found so difficult to care for anything at all, even tormenting Sir Walter gave her little pleasure and nothing of the London society really captivated her attention for long. At least Childermass reminded her of what had been taken from her and how she should distrust all men in the future.

“I’ve always wondered how Mr Segundus could be your friend. It was you who arranged for my removal to Starecross, Sir Walter told me that you convinced Mr Norrell and Mr Segundus to agree with your plan. I have always wondered why.”

“It was the only convenient solution for all the parties.”

“I don’t mean why sending me far from your Mr Norrell,” Emma explained, making a face. “I mean why Mr Segundus, of all men! I see that the choice was very good, absolutely brilliant in retrospect; but I doubt you knew it at the time.”

“I didn’t,” Childermass shrugged. “I knew him for a good man, someone who would not refuse me. And I meant to know exactly where you were, and see you from time to time, something which I might have not been able to accomplish if things had been left in Sir Walter’s hands or in Mr Norrell’s. I knew something was wrong with you, but I needed more time to understand what it was. I got you to the safest place I could think of.”

Emma fell silent. She had not considered the matter from this point of view before, because she had not thought Childermass capable of such foresight. Yet, it was possible that he was lying, and that he had just been lucky enough to put her into the hands of the best of men; he might be willing to win her over, as many tried, enchanted by her beauty or by her grotesque story. But the more she looked at him, the more she was convinced that he did not care one way or another.   

“Do you think Mr Segundus would refuse me if I asked to visit Starecross?” she asked quietly.

“You already know he wouldn’t.”

“Yes, he’s too kind for his own good. After all, if he can tolerate _you_ in his house, he can have me as well and be even quite delighted with the prospect.”

This time Childermass seemed annoyed, or at least his gestures acquired a new briskness as he proceeded with his tests. He pricked her thumb with a needle, and she looked at the round pearl of blood; blood used to disgust her but after her dances in Faerie she could think of many more bloodless disgusting things.

“Really Childermass, how did you ever become friends, you and Mr Segundus? It interests me.”

“Our paths crossed, given the common interests.”

“I don’t believe you ever cross paths with anyone without meaning to, Childermass,” she teased him.

“Then it might be that I admired him, your ladyship, and meant to get in his way,” he grunted.

“That’s more likely. Will you write to him, then?”

“Write to him, your ladyship?” Childermass asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

“It would be quite improper if _I_ was to write to Starecross to ask asylum. It must be you, suggesting that I would profit from travelling to Yorkshire and that the air in the country would reinvigorate me - or _soften_ , it might be better to comfort Sir Walter with the idea that I might return to his ideal of feminine tenderness. It must be also underlined that there I would have the company of my dear friend Mrs Strange, and that of my former guardian, Mr Segundus. An interview with Sir Walter shall suffice, together with your letter to Mr Segundus.”

“And what makes you think I’d do it?”

“You owe me.”

“You shot me,” Childermass retorted.

“I meant to shoot Mr Norrell. You got in the way.”

Emma was surprised when he saw Childermass’s grimace turn - probably against his own will - in a kind of smile.

“Very well. I shall speak with Sir Walter.”

“Oh, and I thought that it’d be necessary to use my second argument to convince you to do as I say and write the letter!”

“Meaning?”

“That you may want to get in Mr Segundus’s way once more.”

 

*

 

_September 3 rd, 1817_

 

_Mr Childermass,_

 

_You may be surprised at receiving my letter. I won’t conceal from you that I’ve written it in secret and not even my friend Mrs Strange is aware of it. Still I believe that this is the right thing to do and that you more than any other may appreciate its content and judge for yourself the best course of action. I’ve been often told that presuming too much is my defect, and you may think very ill of me for concerning myself with your business. I have already been warned against such boldness, but particularly in connection with our common friend, Mr Strange. My sympathy for the circumstances of his presence in Venice and the loyalty he inspired me with have been regarded as reckless feelings; even now, my friendship with Mrs Strange raise rumours wherever we go. Yet, she is very dear to me, as much as her husband was: I consider their affection for me a privilege I won for my forwardness._

_You must forgive me the digression. I deemed it necessary to excuse the content and the tone of what you are hopefully going to read (if you have not already thrown this away). I wished to make it clear that I would not intrude if my experience had not led me to believe that involvement in other people’s lives, when it stems from sincere caring, is a worthy occupation._

_Secondly, I would not have presumed to contact you if I was not convinced that you are not being clearly informed of what is happening at Starecross. You receive regular and detailed reports, mainly by Mr Levy, and the content of those is discussed and agreed upon among the gentlemen. No letter you receive has not been read by Mr Segundus; in short, they contain only what he wants you to know. Mr Hadley-Bright has been so kind as to explain to me that none among them would ever be as disloyal to Mr Segundus as to write to you anything that he would not approve of. Even if I have been told that Mr Levy did indeed express his concern to Mr Segundus and begged him to let you have word of it, Mr Segundus convinced him that there is no reason to inform you of some research of his, since it is a minor matter you would not be interested in._

_I am afraid that no one desired to express any doubt on Mr Segundus’s skills as a magician, he being so prone to disregarding himself; besides, his new experiments do look quite harmless: no explosions, no disagreeable smells follow them. I see the gentlemen have been reassured. I have not, on the other hand. I pray you not to believe that it is a figment of my imagination when I write that I am afraid Mr Segundus has embarked on a dangerous quest, whose price may be too high for a magician alone._

_At this point I must inform you that I’ve been talking to Mr Vinculus. I’m afraid that his habit of lying and colouring even the most prosaic of events has earned everybody’s mistrust, and his statements, no matter if supported by facts, are widely disregarded. That is the reason, I believe, that his words about Mr Segundus’s doings have not been taken into serious account by anyone but me._

_I cannot say that his words have been anything of a warning. I think that Mr Vinculus is largely pleased with Mr Segundus’s actions - with the sole exception of his prohibition on drinking - and yet I find the way he talks of Mr Segundus most alarming, albeit obscure. I fear I’m not explaining myself very well, but you must remember that I know far less than any of you about magic, therefore my ability to correctly interpret what is going on is limited by my ignorance._

_Now, I shall proceed in order. You shall judge from the information I offer to you._

_As for Mr Segundus’s doings:_

  * first item _. He spends a good deal of time outside the house. I know it’s his wont to take long walks, but it exceeds his habits in the amount of time he spends alone and the number of ingredients and books he takes with him for his wanderings._
  * second item _. He writes more than usual since you left. He shares some of it with the gentlemen, but not all of it. No one knows what he writes about, but the books he chooses and some of the opinions he shares concern curses._
  * third item. _Over the last few weeks he has spent less and less time in the company of any of us. I have noticed that he avoids Mrs Strange particularly, while I have seen him talking to Lady Pole in private more than once. I’m under the impression that only the latter is willing to provide him with the information he’s looking for on the lands of Faerie._
  * fourth item. _He has purchased a certain amount of ingredients, but most notably a great number of maps of the region and works about its history and its ruins. It suggests that he’s looking for a place, a very specific one, around here._



_As for Mr Vinculus’s statements, I report them as well as I can remember them but please note that I took upon myself to arrange them in a speech, though they were delivered at different times, now teasingly and now ominously:_

_“All magicians lie. You cannot see it yet, but they do. Lie, lie, lie. All of them. The worst of them is gone, hasn’t he? Gone, not forever though, he’ll come back - magicians have this tendency to come back, but that’s beside the point. Point being that others will lie in his place, and you better know that sooner rather than later, magicians have a penchant for missing things, and the obvious above all. All magicians are liars, some of them thieves as well, some others lose things. Heads and hearts, lost in the blink of an eye; you know how often did magicians use heads and hearts for their spells in bygone times? You know so little of magicians, but learn this: all magicians lie and John Segundus lies too. You think he’s doing nothing, but he has work to do of his own. He reads me when others are not around; restless he grows, and spiteful too. You would not believe how unkind a kind person can be. You would not believe the lengths a kind person may go, in kindness. Two magicians shall appear in England; how many time can two magicians appear? One pair disappeared, another will take its place, the stage cannot be emptied. It must happen and shall happen, the rain shall make a door, and there’s nothing he doesn’t know. What he doesn’t know doesn’t harm him either, he shall crush enemies and friends alike, all hail the Raven King. It’s all his spell, you see, they’re still working at it. Me his Book, poor Book that I am, cannot do much apart from drinking, shagging, and being read by the magicians. They don’t let me wander off, the dogs. Would you, good old Vinculus shall show you tricks and your very future in the palm of your nice hand, if you want to. But then I am where he wants me, and shall laugh at them. All magicians lie, it is the lies they tell themselves that are the worst of all, and the worst of the worst lies is that he shall not come. He shall and all shall bow, and two magicians shall appear in England, and both shall lie. John Segundus is doing very well, the best servant is the one who does not know he’s serving his master, and he shall serve him while he thinks to serve his heart. Such a nice heart, Childermass must see it in his cards. You do not know Childermass’s tarots? He’ll find him there, if he looks closely; the Emperor, but also the others, the Knight of Batons, the Hermit, the High Priestess, the Moon, the Justice, and the Fool. He’d find himself too if only he cared to look.”_

_I am afraid that only some of it makes sense to me, but I trust that you may understand more._

_I fear that Mr Segundus has decided to follow a dangerous course, otherwise he would not cultivate it in such secrecy. I have been led to believe that none better than you could divert that course and I will go as far as to write that I think that course has been set as a consequence of your departure and our arrival._

_If I am right and it’s the Pillar of Darkness he seeks, then it is time for you to come back to Starecross._

_You must know that I long to see Mr Strange again, but I’m bound to my promise to be at Mrs Strange’s side. Yet I think you must know how I feel to better appreciate what I’m writing now: you should bring them back, but no man alone can hope to triumph over the Pillar of Darkness._

_If Jonathan Strange did not, and Mr Norrell did not, Mr Segundus stands no chance._

_I must therefore beg you to consider writing to Mr Segundus if not returning to Starecross._

_Your faithful_

_Flora Greysteel_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] It may serve our narrative here to report an excerpt of a letter Miss Greysteel wrote to her father, dated June 19th, 1817: “ _Though I had Mrs Strange’s good opinion to vouch for his character, I must confess that my admiration for Mr Segundus has increased over the last couple of weeks. I see that he is a man with an excellent instinct for managing a household, a quality not so often found in bachelors; he does it with laudable sensitivity, offering in himself an example of sobriety, tolerance, and purposefulness. Further testimony of his character is offered by the appreciation of most of the people who call at Starecross, magicians and scholars alike. Only the other day I had the chance to talk with Mr Thorpe, who has known Mr Segundus for ten years. He’s a York gentleman, not very learned in magic but curious and pleasant enough to be gladly admitted to our small society. He has confessed me that he had long thought Mr Segundus a most deserving gentleman and he is therefore very glad to see that now the world seems to have noticed what he has always known: that Mr Segundus always asks the right questions, and that all would profit from encouraging him more than it has been done in the past. And indeed one can see how Mr Thorpe always tries to sit closer to Mr Segundus with the kind purpose of giving him his support in the most delicate manner, and keep him from isolating himself - for Mr Segundus seems to be inclined to melancholy and Mr Thorpe’s company has a very good effect upon him_.”


	12. Losses and Penalties

_December 17 th, 1815_

 

“This is tyranny, sir! Tyranny!”

 

You take a man and give him a heart to feel for things other men do not prize. You give him a fancy, but his passionate heart turns it into a purpose; it cannot help itself, such a heart. The purpose gives the man the strength to endure disbelief, denial, disappointment over the course of many years. It also takes his money, his energies, sometimes his reputation; it makes him alone, but also gives him friends. Gives him enemies. So the man you have taken for your play is now part of something grander, and it is not all his merit, not all his fault. A heart like this man’s has not yet learnt detachment, though. So it happens that what he feels, he cannot _unfeel_. This unspooling of sentiment which bares his soul cannot be undone; a word that has touched his skin leaves a mark beneath, a gaze can crumble him under its weight. Humankind never ceases to invent ways to crush and slaughter the too-sensitive, the wistful, the impractical.

 

John Segundus put his head in his hands. He had sat down in the uncomfortable armchair he had meant to replace, for he had planned to make the house as welcoming as possible in the belief that the pupils would profit from an appropriate environment. Mr Honeyfoot was pacing the room, the arguments flowing from his mouth interrupted only by sudden outbursts of indignation.

“Mr Honeyfoot, I beg you,” Segundus interrupted him, as soon as he felt that he could speak. “I’m afraid that it’s useless.”

“How can you say so? We haven’t tried yet, and I have ideas that could…”

“ _Please_ ,” Segundus insisted, his throat growing tighter. “I mean it. There’s no use, none of them would work, I’m certain. It would only offer him a chance to humiliate me.”

“Mr Norrell cannot think to rule over England!” Mr Honeyfoot protested.

Segundus said nothing. Hearing Mr Norrell’s name had almost shocked him, as if he had forgotten that it was all about Mr Norrell’s plan to control the whole extent of England’s magic. In retrospect, it had been exceptionally naïve of him to think that he could carry out his plans of a school for magicians without Mr Norrell hearing about it. Even if he had been more careful and managed to keep it secret any longer, sooner or later a dark man would have appeared at his door and told him that he could not do it.

“I think,” Segundus began, rising from the armchair, “I think I need to be alone, Mr Honeyfoot.”

The surprised hurt in his friend’s face made him feel guilty.

“Yes, yes,” Mr Honeyfoot mumbled, colouring slightly. “You must feel that…”

“I don’t know what I should feel,” Segundus gasped, his hand grasping the armchair for support. “And I would like to discuss with you my chances against Mr Norrell, but I think I haven’t any. Please trust me on this, my friend, I cannot fight Mr Norrell. _I simply cannot_.”

Mr Honeyfoot looked at him. Segundus could just see his mind running over a few questions, and then let them all go, one by one. He lowered his head a little, but when he looked again at Segundus he was smiling the tremulous smile of a man still shaken with righteous fury and yet determined to master such a feeling, if only for his friend’s sake.  

“You rest, Mr Segundus,” Mr Honeyfoot said kindly. “It’s been a bad, a damn’ bad day, this one.”

“I…” Segundus swallowed, then straightened his back and did his best to return Mr Honeyfoot’s smile. He extended his hand and his friend grabbed it with both of his. “Thank you. I need time to think. I see that I could, I could write to Mr Strange, but I must ponder my words first.”

“To Mr Strange!” Mr Honeyfoot exclaimed, clearly delighted at the idea. “But surely, wouldn’t it be quite natural if he was to support you? I don’t know how I didn’t think of it in the first place, but when one’s so enraged thoughts turn to muddle. You’re right, Mr Segundus, you must take your time; forgive my temper, but really I’d have used a gun when he…” He stopped, probably noticing how the very mention of the scene which had just passed shook Segundus. “I do not suppose that you’d come home with me,” Mr Honeyfoot said ruefully. “Mrs Honeyfoot would be glad to see you, and the girls too. And you’d have your tranquillity if you preferred, we wouldn’t bother you.”

“It’s very kind of you, but I must stay.”

“What if _he_ returns?” Mr Honeyfoot suggested grimly.

“Oh, he won’t,” Segundus replied, his voice as light as his heart was heavy. “He has already said his piece and achieved his end. He knows I have not misunderstood.”

“But who knows to what he could resort!”

“Believe me, he wouldn’t spare more thoughts on the matter than what it’s strictly needed. Nor will he resort to violence or abuse, when he can defeat me as absolutely without them.”

 

Yet this man is resilient. He has a way to go through life, not unscathed but uncorrupted. To his beliefs, to his purpose, to his friends, he will be devoted. His dedication will earn him praise, but also the accusation of obstinacy. He will wonder, sometimes, if he should not relent, but his heart spurs him forward. Now you lead this man to crossing paths with another, one who is very different from him, to the point that they might turn into antagonists. They do not, though, for sometimes people work in mysterious ways and the things that may separate them bring them together. They may not think about it, it may not be part of their lives, or their nature; still they will seek each other as a rain-soaked wanderer seeks the warmth of the fire, even if he must leave soon, even if the path ahead is dark and the one who has put that roof upon his head and kindled that fire has no name. You take what it is given to you, out of need, avidity, selfishness. Who knows when the fire will be lit again.

 

He waited half an hour after Mr Honeyfoot had left Starecross.

Then he allowed himself to feel panic-stricken. He dropped on the floor, without knowing anything except that his legs would not carry him as far as the armchair. His breath was as roughened as if he had been madly running through the moor, and his skin felt as cold and wet under his clothes. He broke in dry sobs, swallowing the air in great gulps; his hands clawed at his waistcoat, knowing that it would be better if he loosened it, let himself breathe more freely. The buttons slipped between his fingers, the waistcoat seemed to tighten around his chest, press down onto his ribs, crush and grind them. His throat felt raw; he could taste the words he had thrown at Childermass still crawling on his tongue, down his throat.

He was afraid.

He did not remember being so afraid in years. After all, he had not been so close to being discovered for  a very long time, since that day when the schoolmaster had caned him for hiding in a cupboard with his trousers down to his ankles; at least he had been alone in that cupboard, and at least he had not been found with another boy’s name on his lips.

Then he had always been very careful, staying away from places where he could have found pleasure, but also terror. He had not let himself be easily tempted by men of his station, or of a lower one. He had dodged invitations, denied confidence, kept to himself to the point that he had felt almost as if his prison was a kind of freedom, where he was liberated from lust - it was not so though, his desires were just locked inside him, buried deep but alive.

Childermass had shewed him that those desires could be unburied. Now Childermass would also shew him how they could be exposed.

_You have been too ambitious, sir._

Indeed, it was the most hateful thing about Childermass, his uncanny ability of being right, and being so about all the things that cut, stripping flesh from bones and feelings from thoughts; right about the unfairness of the world, and about how a man of Segundus’s character would always be on the losing side. What had hurt the most had been the lack of surprise on Childermass’s face, as if he had always known that he would find himself in such a position, telling Segundus to _wind up the business immediately._ As if he had been born to this, to shewing himself at a man’s door as black and sharp as an omen of misery, telling him that all hopes of a better station in life - more than that: a chance to happiness and dedication - must be abandoned.

Segundus still saw Childermass’s face before him, pale against the black tide of his hair and coat; the hat, low on his brow, the cruel cut of his mouth, and the sunken eyes which bore into him without warmth. They had assessed him, the house, then him again, down to his old shoes, as if Childermass meant to commit the very image of his cold-blooded slaying to memory; as if he wanted to say to himself: _this is how I broke a man_.

In truth, despite Mrs Lennox’s and Mr Honeyfoot’s encouragements, he had always felt that this school would not be after all; that his obstinacy and Mrs Lennox’s means would not stand against Mr Norrell, and that something would be done against the project. Strangely enough, he had not thought of Childermass’s role, though anyone could have seen that Mr Norrell would not send any other to Starecross. Worse than that, none would be sent in Childermass’s place because Childermass would claim this part for himself and play it to the bone.

Yet, Segundus had let himself be caught unaware.

 

Take a man and give him nightmares. Have preachers and well-thinkers throw hells at him, let his mind supply images of pain and shame, the price of his own desires. A man with such a heart is a man of ideas; a man of ideas will envision the punishment well before experiencing it. It is a punishment in itself, a sorrow he will inflict upon his soul, torturing it with the possibilities of agony. _Pains of death and losses **[1]**_ : let him chew on such words, hone them against the sharp edges of his desire; make him pale, make him colour with the thought of it, of what they would do to him if they knew. This is how a man learns reticence; this is also how you make him alone - not always, not wholly, and yet subtly, relentlessly so. He will keep friends, he may keep lovers. And yet he will lie to the former, fear the latter. He will be unknown, sometimes even to himself; he may be cajoled, one day or another, into marrying without love or desire, into fathering sons. He may find it a kind of happiness; he may find it a prison. Let him just consume himself, ever slowly, very slowly, a candle forgotten, light wasted over impermeable darkness.

 

There was another, maybe greater fear, than the fear of pain. The fear of being paraded, like a chunk of meat hanging from the butcher’s hook, the red and white of flesh exposed, all the nerves and the muscles of his soul bared for the eyes of strangers. Segundus was terrorised by the punishment, but especially by the nakedness the punishment implied, how all of him would be made into a charge, a piece of paper handed from policeman to lawyer to judge, news to be carried around, an example for others who had better hide and deny. In short, they would accuse him of being himself. He regretted that his desires must be so rooted in his heart to be taken for the whole of him, and yet he saw that it could not be any different, the same way he could not think of himself without his childhood and adolescence before him, like things that had made, or unmade, him.

He wondered if Childermass had mastered the art of being something different from himself, to the point that he could detach himself from his desires. Look at his hands and say to himself: _I have not held him_. Close his eyes and say to himself: _I have not looked at him_. Press his tongue against his teeth and say to himself: _My tongue has not touched him here, here,_ _and here_. But it might be that Childermass had no need to deny nor to forget; it was enough to think that those were mere facts. The point was rather what one would do with such facts, and clearly Childermass had decided that they would serve very well his master’s cause.

Oh no, Childermass had not forgotten. He remembered exactly what had passed and meant for Segundus to remember it as well. It was the very leverage of Childermass’s threat, to show up at Starecross and declare that a school for magicians could not be in Mr Norrell’s new age of magic. Then say - how calm he had looked, how awed Segundus had felt even then! - that Segundus had grown too ambitious and he could not really expect his master to look elsewhere. _I was able to turn a blind eye_ , Childermass had said. While the other eye must have closely observed Segundus, marking each of his steps. _I said nothing and Mr Norrell remained in ignorance of what you were doing_ : that was another way to say that Segundus should be grateful for the time he had been able to entertain notions of teaching magic; another way to say that Childermass had been keeping Segundus’s ambition in the palm of his hand, and now it had come the time to crush it.

So it was true that Norrell had the means to destroy him. Childermass had secured them for his master, and Segundus had been so foolish as to yield them willingly (so willingly that he could have beaten himself for it, for the sweetness of it, for how he had _begged_ and ached for his own ruin).

What could Strange ever do? What could Mrs Lennox do? The right word, a testimony, and Segundus would be charged. It might be that a servant’s word could little against a gentleman, and yet the damage would be done, for the gentleman in question had not the means to bury the accusation under his prestige or his money. Then others might remember how very different John Segundus had always been, how strange his ways, how suspicious and base he was in truth if they think better about it, then meanness and debauchery would be found even where there were none, and this part of his life would be finished.

_I am sorry it ends like this, sir._

Segundus closed his eyes, squeezed them shut until tears sprung from under his eyelids. He dabbed at them with his fingers, then pushed himself up - on his knees first, then to his feet, even if the floor now felt as tender and trembling as his heart. He was suddenly curious about what kind of sorrow might Childermass ever feel for what he had done; he would have liked to ask him, now, what made him sorry, for that would be the key to understand what Childermass had taken from him. For Segundus knew that he had been robbed, his ribcage as barren and flabby as an empty purse, his mind a blank, his heart hollowed. What had been there before, though, was a mystery, and it might be that Childermass knew what he should have placed there instead of this rage like white fire, this bitterness like black mud. But he would not ask Childermass.   

_Yet, surely all is not lost?_

Yet, all is.

 

*

_December 13 th, 1815_

 

The simplicity of the room in the attic did much to mitigate Segundus’s nervousness. He could not say what he had been expecting instead. Surely he had not been so naive as to think that Childermass’s room at Hurtfew would resemble some paltry illustration of a magician’s quarters, decked with little bones and dried herbs, shrouded in darkness and fumes, the floor crisscrossed by chalk drawings.

Yet he was surprised, and slightly awed, by its neatness and sparse furniture (further implements would have hardly fit in anyway). It was more luminous that rooms in the attic usually are, with a window looking south and onto the road leading to York. Segundus mentally reproached himself for picturing most of Childermass’s doings in half-light, when it was clear that the man - bent as he was on employing great part of his time reading and writing - would favour quarters where he could get as much natural light as possible.

A few details were surprisingly heart-warming. The general tidiness and economy of the room did not mean that all signs of inhabitation had been erased from it. A damp towel had been folded and neatly draped on the chair, for Childermass had shaven that very morning - his cheeks were still pink and smooth from it, and there was a smell of soap hanging in the room. There were also several bottles of ink on the desk, as if Childermass had opened a first one, and promptly forgotten it - in the library, maybe, or in Mr Norrell’s study - then he had opened another to serve him when need arose, and so on until he had found himself encumbered with too many ink bottles, all half or two-third through.

And there was Childermass himself, who apparently did not wear black at all times and in all places, and looked very common in a pair of brown breeches and a white shirt, since he had not had any time to dress before Segundus’s unexpected arrival.

Segundus suspected that this contributed to Childermass’s annoyance, for Childermass was one of those people who rely on their clothes to say something about themselves and must therefore feel quite out of sorts if they are surprised outside their armour. For all Childermass’s apparent indifference to the age and cut of his clothes, it was clear that he had a love for all the flapping and swishing which went with his long coat, for the way the brim of his hat could conceal his eyes if only he tilted his head so and so, and for the general impression of blackness his costume gave out.

With his clothes on, one might even think Childermass a murderer in the making or an ill omen roaming the wilderness.

Without, he was very much a man, his skin raw from the shave and his limbs a little worn and thinned by use. He was also very vexed, judging by the roughness of his voice when he addressed Segundus, as soon as the servant (Brandon? Brad?) had left them alone.

“You have got no business to see me, sir.”

“I suppose I should have sent you a note first,” Segundus admitted, colouring at the reproach. “I’m very sorry that my presence displeases you so much.”

Indeed Childermass looked the very embodiment of displeasure, and that was _something_ , since Segundus had never known him to display any emotion so generously. He was scowling at Segundus and his mouth had taken a bitter curve. It was disconcerting, because this was not Segundus’s wont either: he did not show up at any house unannounced and uninvited, and was far from wishing to inconvenience even the humblest of his fellow men. Yet he had thought that the state of things between them had by then taken up such a course which allowed for some license.

And before Segundus could restrain himself, he said as much.

“I thought the liberties we have taken with each other were of a nature that you’d tolerate my visit here, even if you clearly never thought it appropriate to suggest it.”

“ _Liberties_?” Amusement stole across Childermass’s features, before he schooled it into a grimace. “It’s unwise to barge into another man’s lodgings, sir, even if circumstances may have suggested that your visit would be welcome.”

“And isn’t it?” Segundus asked, his throat unpleasantly tight.

“So far you’ve trusted me to set the times and manners of our meetings, and you have not struck me as unsatisfied by the bargain.”

Segundus reddened. _Meetings_ , _bargain_ , _unsatisfied_ : all words fell short of what he had been experiencing since he had found himself in Childermass’s orbit, and all words felt so business-like that they sickened him and curbed the thrill he had felt at the idea of calling on Childermass.

“Must it be so appalling that for once I’ve taken it upon myself then?”

“I’ve never intruded so, sir,” Childermass remarked. The word _intruded_ stung. “Hurtfew is not Lady Peckett’s Yard.” A pause, then, more harshly still: “As for Starecross Hall, I’ve not presumed to call on you there so far.”

“Maybe you mean that at Hurtfew there are people who would tell Mr Norrell about my visit,” Segundus said, lowering his eyes to hide his discomfort at the thought that it was particularly Mr Norrell’s attention that Childermass meant to deflect from their association.

It was a sensible course of action, considering that Mr Norrell was Childermass’s employer and certainly had not struck Segundus as the most tolerant of masters, and yet Segundus thought that it had more to do with protecting Mr Norrell than protecting either of them.

“I haven’t been careless,” Segundus said meekly. “I told the servant that I meant to see you on business matters. Would that sound so suspicious? Others have seen us in York, in libraries, or inns...oh I didn’t sign that contract, so there’s no reason for me not to meet you for the purpose of talking about magic! I’m not...I’m not to be summoned and directed, and in all led like a child. I can - I shall see you if I wish to, and come here to Hurtfew if you’re going to lock yourself up for days at once, like you often do when you’re here North.”

“You wished to see me,” Childermass repeated, as if the matter was not completely clear, and somehow hid something more complex than Segundus’s simple desire of holding Childermass’s face in his hands and slowly, sensibly decide whether his eyes must be described as dark, black, or dark brown - a wish that had caught Segundus overnight, as debilitating as a cold and yet as sweet as sugar plums.

“I’ve always made you aware of my duties and the place they hold with me, have I not?”

“Yes, with the utmost clarity.” Segundus’s fingers closed more tightly on the brim of his damp hat.

The servant (Brandon? Brad?) had offered to take the hat from him, but Segundus had clung to it and now almost regretted his contrariness, for it seemed very silly to discuss while holding such an old shabby thing. And surely Childermass found his nervous fondling of the hat quite contemptible.

Segundus would have gladly put an end to the entire scene, but he could not actually see himself out of the house. He feared the dramatic force of such an exit, and more than that how he would be quite unable to find his way back to the entrance (he could feel, even now, the slight, confusing malevolence of the house). Childermass would be forced to lead him, or worse he would summon Brandon-Brad to escort Segundus out.

Segundus had not appreciated the incredulous stare and taunting smile the servant had offered him when he had explained that he was there to see Mr John Childermass. Now, it might be that Brandon-Brad had had far more foresight than him, John Segundus, as to the degree of pleasure that an unexpected visit would cause Mr Childermass. And Segundus did not care for such a witness to his defeat.

“It was foolish of you to come,” Childermass said, as if he thought that Segundus would profit from hearing it aloud, even if he had already made it quite plain with all his frowning and barking.

Indeed, Childermass’s behaviour now reminded Segundus of some supercilious, moody dog, that would stoop to playfulness should you meet it on the street and be good to it, but would as quickly bite you if you ventured anywhere near the house it guards.

“Then I’ve been very foolish meeting you upon the moor and in town, and so I’ve been foolish for several years -” Segundus fell silent, hit as he was by the heavy thought of how long they had been doing this and still how quickly Childermass could dismiss him from his sight, even after they had been unable to see each other for so long.

Childermass’s gaze seemed to soften ever so slightly.

“Why did you have to come here?” he wondered.

“I suppose I was missing you.”

Childermass’s forehead creased. He did not seem surprised, but neither did he look pleased with the revelation.

“Still you shouldn’t have come.”

“You never told me not to.”

“I know there’re several things I never told you not to do. So you do them, despite the fact that they’re a right piece of foolishness,” Childermass spat.

As if he was as surprised by the unusual vehemence of his voice as Segundus was, Childermass suddenly burst into action, closing books, hiding things Segundus had not even noticed until then; finally, he seized a chair (the only one in the room) and pushed it toward Segundus.

“Now sit.”

“Thank you,” Segundus muttered after a brief struggle with himself about the opportunity of refusing to sit and leaving immediately. Childermass was looking at him with something akin to doubt, as if he had not yet decided what Segundus’s fate should be.

“Do you want me to go?”

“Am I pushing the chair from under you?” Childermass asked mockingly.

“Well, you look as you might do it at any moment.”

At that Childermass laughed, not very heartily but at least his expression lost some of its coldness.

“When I saw you at my door I could have taken you by your collar and dragged you right out, sir.” Childermass narrowed his eyes at Segundus when he caught him wincing. “What? Would you have enjoyed it, to be touched so?”

“Must you be so unpleasant to punish me for trespassing?”

“Yes, unpleasantness leaves a mark on you and it may help you realise how imbecile this is.”

“How dare...”

“Do you realise that you’ve put yourself in my hands?” Childermass interrupted him.

“Haven’t I done it again and again?” Segundus asked, annoyed at the inevitable double meaning of his words. Childermass’s fingers twitched slightly. Segundus wondered if he wished to touch him, after all. “But this is different. Because it’s Hurtfew. I see that you’re not yourself here,” Segundus said and made to stand.

“You’re wrong.” Childermass stepped forward, so swiftly that Segundus almost fell back in the chair. But Childermass’s arm caught him in something which was more a hold than an embrace. “I’m very much myself and that’s why you shouldn’t be here.”

“Because I’m in your hands?”

“Because this is my room and we’re alone, and this is Hurtfew and that’s where I made myself what I am. The servants wouldn’t come if you called.”

“You’re trying to scare me. It’s not charming.”

“You should know I’m never charming, sir.”

Segundus huffed, but his hands gingerly crept up Childermass’s chest. He was surprised at discovering that Childermass was holding his breath, so that he was perfectly still under his fingers. He brushed them over Childermass’s heart, feeling its steady beat, then up to his neck. The shirt left it bare, the skin tender. Segundus traced a little cut left by the razor with his thumb.

“You’re not very good at shaving.”

“I find it tedious. I cannot concentrate on it.”

“You could let me do it for you, once.”

“Would you? But yes, you would if I asked.”

“Don’t say it as if I’d do every menial task you could think of entrusting to me.”

Childermass smirked.

“Now be so good as to kiss me, Mr Segundus. I believe you came here for it.”

Segundus would have liked to protest, but he was too honest to deny that he had been looking forward to kissing. He felt sure that he had developed a fixation on kissing Childermass, since he spent a great deal of time thinking about it when the man was not around, and even when he was around. He also feared that he looked at Childermass’s mouth too frequently, regardless of the fact that it was not a sensual mouth by any means, and a stranger would hardly be reminded of kisses at the sight of it. Of bites, more probably.

Considering how little pleasure in Segundus’s presence Childermass had showed so far, the vigour of his kiss was unexpected. The chair was knocked down, the hat thrown to the floor, and Childermass’s hands tightened around his waist, manoeuvring him until he was flattened against the window. Segundus felt the coldness of the pane pressing against the back of his head and the folds of the curtains half-enveloping them both. The cloth was dusty, enough to make his nose tingle, and when he sneezed Childermass regarded him with a kind of gentle contempt, while his hands worked at the opening of Segundus’s breeches.

“Have you walked all the way to come here?” Childermass asked, jerking him left and right - more, Segundus thought, than the business of putting his hands down his breaches justified.

“It’s a fine day,” Segundus defended himself.

“It’s bloody winter and you put yourself out on the road. Ain’t even a short route, and you don’t give a damn as to how you’re supposed to make your return. How am I to send you back? Unless it’s a ruse to find yourself here for the night.”

The accusation made Segundus gasp - no, not the accusation itself, rather the confusing combination of Childermass’s hand shoved into his breeches, his rough palm finding him as hard as he had ever been, and the furious look on Childermass’s face.

Segundus squeezed his eyes shut. He could not help the twitch of his hips, seeking Childermass’s touch, but he was hurt by Childermass’s determination to find him at fault. So he forcefully pulled Childermass’s hand out of his breeches and backed away, even if only to find himself more tightly bound by the curtains. He bit his tongue rather than voicing his bitter frustration at the heavy, dusty hold of the thing, which was encumbering his movements. While he struggled with the curtains, he saw no better option than to reassure Childermass about the fact that he would have no need to shelter him for the night - in truth, at this point Segundus felt badly enough that a snowstorm would not have convinced him to stay at Hurtfew a moment more.  

“I am to meet Mr Honeyfoot’s driver at the Birch Inn. He has a few commissions to attend to, but Mr Honeyfoot has been so kind as to put his carriage at my disposal for the return. You see that I can start to make my way back,” he pointed out, though the offer fell flat since his left foot was still in the grip of the curtains. “I am sure at the Inn they could...”

“What did you tell your friend?”

“Not that I was coming here to see you, obviously! Only that I meant to pick up herbs and ingredients - he doesn’t forget his oath to renounce magic, he didn’t even enquire nor offered to come with me.”

“If you resorted to lies, you must have come here in earnest.”

Segundus had just managed to shove the curtains aside and now faced Childermass.

“Haven’t I already told you so?” he asked, dismayed at Childermass’s mistrust. “You, on the other hand, have made quite clear that you don’t want me here.”

Childermass snorted, then gingerly leant against Segundus, his nose bumping against his forehead, his mouth finding his right temple. If it was a kind of courtship, it was aimless and clumsy, as Childermass hardly ever was. It reassured Segundus, since he found awkwardness very familiar and especially appeasing when enacted by Childermass - whose wont was to be exact in all things. So he held Childermass’s face in his hands, frowning while he observed it.

“I never pretend to know what you desire. Yet I think you should tell me if I must leave.”

“After you lied to your friend Honeyfoot and crossed the cold country to come to me? How could I ever send you back?” Childermass’s tone was lazy, a pretence of light-heartedness, but his heavy-lidded eyes were dark with intent. “Tell me you want this.”

Segundus blinked and would have enquired what _this_ implied, but he was being kissed. And the kisses were so long, and so little time elapsed between one and the next, that it was rather a single kiss dragged on and on. They also managed, between kisses, to divest Segundus of his coat. It was done badly, leaving Segundus with the coat hanging by his left wrist for an unreasonable amount of time, only because he could not see how to take his hand away from the front of Childermass’s breeches, which he had just reached following a sudden inspiration. And the groan Childermass gave then was so delightful that it took Segundus some time to see that they would not be rid of the coat if he did not relinquish that most congenial hold on the other man. He resumed it as quickly as possible though, once the coat was thrown toward the chair (it missed and lay on the floor quite forgotten).

Oh, how Segundus liked the feeling of Childermass’s hardness beneath his hand! Even if he had had enough proof, over the time, of Childermass’s desire for him, it always managed to fascinate him, like some great mystery yet unsolved. He palmed him through the cloth, revelling in the tremor of Childermass’s hips and the increasingly laboured breath he could elicit with the simplest, but insisting, caress. The metal rings of the curtains sang, as Childermass had gripped one of its folds and tugged at it when Segundus slowly traced the shape of him with his thumb.

When their eyes locked, Segundus saw in Childermass’s the hunger of a starving man. It filled his heart with a combination of fright, pity, and excitement, as if he had just met a wolf on the prowl and noticed, quite in the same breath, both how famished the poor beast looked and how sharp his teeth gleamed in the half-light. Segundus halted the movement of his hand, which was probably why Childermass grunted in displeasure and brought their bodies flush.

“I want you!” Segundus gasped, as if the very words which had seemed impossible to say aloud mere moments before had been squeezed out of him by the weight of Childermass’s body.

Segundus would be hard put to say what it was that he wanted of Childermass and from Childermass. It was a hazy desire, not yet connected to what they had done during some of their previous encounters. He was aware that he often let Childermass do most of the work and had not reciprocated all the overwhelming, filthy acts Childermass had performed for his pleasure ( _not yet!_ , Segundus told himself, for he liked to think that he would soon mend the flaws in his education), and yet Childermass did not seem to resent it. He appeared to find Segundus’s trust exciting, was more frequently amused than annoyed by his shyness, and only good-humouredly teased him about his being too much of a gentleman to know - let alone use - a certain set of obscene words.

But what Segundus felt now was that he could not do another moment without having Childermass. _How_ that could be managed was vague - not because Segundus was so ignorant on how the deed might be done, but because his desire was so vast and all-encompassing that he would not know where to start. It was more than a desire of flesh against flesh, and yet it would not be relegated to the realm of the mind and satisfied with theory and speculations.

All of Segundus felt thirsty, his mouth and soul alike: he wanted to put his hands on Childermass’s hair and on every bone in his body, he must see his face grow soft after he had taken his pleasure, and before that he must see him bite his lip, for he never did it to Segundus’s knowledge. He wanted Childermass’s accent scraping and etching words, and tenderness leaving honey on his tongue. He wanted curses and praises, and the songs hummed against his skin; Childermass’s magic, too, taking them in a flight over the moor, if such a thing was ever possible nowadays. He wanted to press Childermass into the darkest earth and put his mouth on him, on every part of him, to suck the hollow of his elbows and the head of his cock, till flowers would break through the frozen ground and spring beneath them.

John Segundus wanted, wanted, wanted, and thought that it would consume him from the inside if he did nothing, like Greek fire spreading through his veins and even worse than that - like the dull, graceless bite of melancholy, gnawing at his very core if he let Childermass out of his reach.

“I want you,” he repeated, for he was almost sure that Childermass had not heard him, since he had done nothing about it. _Which is unacceptable_ , Segundus thought sullenly.

All he got for his perseverance was a grunt; and Childermass’s hands, his fine, gentlemanly hands urging him to turn around, pushing him and bending him until his chest was pressed onto the writing desk.

There was a noise of things rolling out of place, the desk almost jolted under their combined weight as if it was a ship pounded by wind and waves from all sides. Childermass’s hand shot forward to grab an ink bottle swinging on the very edge of the desk, then moved a couple of books to the window stool while Segundus peeled a couple of notes from his heated cheeks. All was managed without dislodging either of them from their current position, one which allowed Segundus to judge for himself Childermass’s _interest_.

He bit his lips, feeling certain that he would have broken into a moan otherwise. This most considerate resolve was nullified when Childermass managed to get a hand between Segundus’s tights and his touch was punctuated by the thrust of his cock against Segundus’s backside. The fact that they were still mostly clothed did little to circumscribe Segundus’s excitement, let alone the way Childermass’s mouth was on his neck, his teeth grazing his ear, his tongue tracing his jaw.

A moment later Segundus felt his breeches yanked down, followed by his small clothes. It was not wholly pleasant to find himself half naked, with his skin rapidly covering in goosebumps and the worrying idea that his thighs were too fleshy. It was true that Childermass had seen them before - oh, indeed he had seen all of Segundus’s body, now one part and then another, never everything at a time - and never seemed displeased with it ( _quite the contrary!_ ). But this was not an anonymous room in a noisy inn, nor the plain grass of a pasture where last summer Childermass had taken him apart with his mouth.

This was Hurtfew and it was so personal that Segundus felt shyer than he had been in months. But it might be that he should not have worried at all, for Childermass’s ardour had not abated and his irritation at Segundus’s unexpected visit seemed completely forgotten in the heat of their romp. Indeed, it was as if Childermass’s desire had grown into focus, the dim sweetness of his first caresses now honed into the sting of his thumb which pressed against Segundus’s entrance.

It was not the first time Childermass touched him that way.

Segundus liked it and did not like it at the same time; it gave him pleasure and still left him thrashing in the throes of a burning desire for a _more_ that had not yet come. He knew what that was, though Childermass had never pressed the matter further. He had spoken of it, but only when in a passion, foretelling the cries he would steal from Segundus when he would have his cock in him, suggesting how lovely Segundus would look on all fours, and dispensing other filthy endearments. They had never discussed it, and Segundus did not know where such a conversation might ever start. He had meant to ask, more than once, full of curiosity and more than slightly aroused by Childermass’s teasing, yet he had not done so.

Now he was suddenly aware that Childermass was not idly touching him, but preparing him.

The revelation hit Segundus full-force, but his thoughts were somewhat misled by Childermass’s fingers pushing past his lips, moving into his mouth. He was not sure that he had really heard Childermass command to suck on them, but he did it anyway, moaning around the fingers at the thought that, at another time, he could have been closing his lips around Childermass’s cock - the association of ideas favoured by the way it was rubbing against his fundament. Childermass’s other hand was in his hair, holding his head up to make it easier for him to lick at his fingers, something which Segundus did in a haze, sloppily working his mouth on them while Childermass’s short breath fell on his neck like a praise.

It ended after what it felt like a short time - but maybe it was not - and the weight upon him shifted; then he felt Childermass’s fingertips ghosting over his tenderest skin, a flutter in his stomach, his throat tight when the touch became more insistent, and from insistent to unrelenting and from unrelenting to breaching. Segundus gasped, his hands flailing against the desk, trying to find a hold, slipping along the edge, on papers, on wood. He was grateful for Childermass’s hand weighing on his lower back, pinning his thoughts and body in place before they could both desert him; even more so, since he had not yet found a way to cope with the intrusion of a single finger when another followed.

It did not pain him, but it felt as if he was in pain; taken apart, pulled and stretched, and no help against the moans escaping his lips. _What will you do when I put my cock into you?_ The curtains swayed before his eyes, leaving the glimmer of dust in the half-light. Childermass’s fingers were turning slowly inside him, the way keys would turn into a lock, opening, opening, their small teeth catching into the mysteries of the lock and snapping it open, bare. And then they almost pulled out, which was a relief and a disappointment at the same time, before pressing in again.

“Please,” Segundus managed to sob.

He wanted it to stop; he wanted it to go on.

But he did not have any control over it, for he did not know how to ask for anything.  

Now the fingers slipped out of him, the emptiness they left behind more hurtful than the stretching that had preceded it. Segundus had no time to focus on it though: all of a sudden, Childermass was trying to get his cock inside of him. _It’ll never fit!_ Segundus tensed, alarmed by the coarseness of it - the hurtful pressure, the harsh breathing, Childermass spitting in his hand and stroking his cock with it to help it slide in.

It would not. The fault lay with Segundus’s body, tight with apprehension, as well as with Childermass’s lust, making him impatient. That what more or less what Childermass suggested, in broken sentences and grunts, when he offered a kind of apology and promised Segundus that he would not disappoint him, _sir_. It was bizarre to be called so when he was lying with his chest on Childermass’s desk and bare from the waist down.

Childermass had opened a drawer in the desk. He was rummaging blindly through it, one-handed because he had not relinquished his hold on Segundus. A click of his tongue told Segundus that Childermass had found what he had been looking for, and a moment later he felt the cold oil - or whatever it was - on his skin, where Childermass’s fingers lay after he had used them on his cock.

He then felt Childermass’s hold tighten on his hip and again the unyielding pressure.

“Don’t forget to breathe.”

Segundus found it so unbearably ridiculous that he gave a little laugh, almost sobbed with it, his body shaken by the breath that he had indeed been holding, and it was then that he was breached. He felt his body relax in the laugh, letting Childermass slide further in. He heard the sharp intake of Childermass’s breath, then his own voice, breaking into a whine at the intrusion.

“You must be quiet, sir,” Childermass murmured into his ear. He was adjusting himself over him, his cock sinking a little more, his hand moving to Segundus’s flagging erection. “Or they’ll hear you.”

“Childermass!” was all Segundus could manage when the man’s hand closed around him.

He had almost forgotten his own excitement, too focused on the discomfort of being taken this way. The idea of it - Segundus reasoned with himself in quite a feverish, disjointed fashion - was more pleasurable than the thing itself, at least for the time being. The physical feeling was odd, a weight and a stretch barely bearable at times, and what he had experienced at Childermass’s fingers was little compared to this other part of the man’s anatomy. He had never thought or been led to believe that Childermass was more endowed than average, yet he now felt that he was far too gigantic to be ever accommodated inside him. It might be that he failed to keep this thought to himself, for he heard Childermass’s dry chuckle in his ear.

Then Childermass’s hand took to stroking him: as soon as Segundus felt his interest rise again - _oh, he has clever hands!_ \- Childermass moved, retreating only a little before thrusting in. It seemed that he had gone a little deeper than he had had before, and the same happened with the next thrust, and the next, until Segundus felt the weight and warmth of Childermass’s stones between them and so knew that he was now fully inside him.

Childermass straightened his back, his hands keeping Segundus down while he changed the angle. He gave a sound, a hum that made Segundus’s spine tingle at the praising quality of it - as if Childermass was contemplating him, and all he was seeing was _good_. He started to move, short, shallow thrusts that were slowly chipping away at Segundus’s ability to keep quiet. His body aligned itself with his mind, while the discomfort faded, or rather slipped in the background, leaving the stage to a growing delight.

Segundus was tense again, but in quite a different way, like the air before a storm, tasting like rain even in the sun. It was all in the promise his body was making, the promise of a pleasure which would put an end to this terrible, glorious ache Childermass’s cock was carving inside him thrust after thrust. Childermass was moving faster and the desk sighed under their weight, and all the sounds Segundus was making felt so dangerously loud in the small room that he trembled - but it might be that he trembled in pleasure, and the fear of being discovered was only an idea buzzing at the back of his mind.

Childermass’s hand found his mouth, his fingers against his lips, to keep him quiet. Not the palm of his hands, just his fingertips pressing down on Segundus’s mouth, on his teeth, on his tongue, so that it was as if Childermass was taking his mouth as well, entering his body both ways because he meant to bury himself deeper and deeper, setting every nerve afire, knocking every bone out of place, readjusting the balance of Segundus’s thoughts. It was too much and it must end, so it ended with Childermass’s hand beautifully wrapped around Segundus’s cock, stroking him to the edge and past it.

There was something different in reaching the pleasure when so filled. His body was not scattered, it did not collapse into nothing, did not burn into smoke; it took a shape he had not had before, took a weight he had not had, coiling and choking, as if what had given to Childermass had won him a heart of lead and that was dragging him down, suddenly colliding with the man’s wiry frame. It was not lightness, it was drowning and not flying, it was weight, and he felt so heavy, limbs and soul, and his spend warm on his belly.

Childermass pushed inside him once, twice more, and then it was done for him as well, making no sound as he came.

For some time, they did nothing but regain their breath, both still and growing cold, as if they had been caught at it. They had not, yet Segundus felt as if some trap had closed upon them, and now they could not carry on as they had done before. It was not a matter of his virginity; it was not even the intimacy of the bodies per se. It was, he would realise later, the vulnerability born from it. They were now, more than ever, in a place where they could be hurt by the world outside this small room; where they could hurt each other too, in ways they had not contemplated enough before.

Childermass’s hand was on his nape, the fingers in his hair. He was keeping him down: the force his hold lacked was supplanted by the firmness of his gesture, and Segundus would not have felt more urged to stillness if Childermass had spoken his command aloud. He felt Childermass slip out of him, the slightest stutter in his breath. Segundus could not help a groan, on the other hand, since his body felt so tender and bare as if it could be bruised at the slightest pressure.

He thought that Childermass was watching him. He could feel the dark eyes indulging in the sight of his rumpled shirt, his ruffled hair, the mess between his cheeks and down his thighs.

“I wish,” Childermass said, so suddenly that Segundus bit his tongue, “I could go at you again.” He pressed himself against Segundus, almost lazily, their skin cold and sticky. Segundus could not help flinching. “But I’m not young anymore and you must leave soon.”

That was all he said before he took his hand away from Segundus’s nape, before he took all of his body away from him. Segundus blinked, for he had not thought that Childermass would help him stand, and yet he had not realised that he would have to stand alone either. He did it, badly, his limbs numb, a soreness that made him clumsier and apparently noisier, for he bumped in the desk, tugged at the curtains, almost lost his footing as if he had been beaten rather than - well, what had been done to him exactly?

He knew all the words by now - all impolite, rough, low - and yet Childermass had used none this time.

Segundus swallowed. While he tried to retrieve his breeches from where they pooled around his calves, he saw Childermass out of the corner of his eye. He was sitting on the bed, dishevelled, his groin still red and wet, his eyes so very dark. Childermass saw him watching. His mouth curved.

“There’re a pitcher with water and a basin over here. Clean yourself.”

Segundus opened his mouth, feeling that there must be a way to meet Childermass’s blunt invitation; but he could not find any word, so he coloured, vaguely humiliated by his own ignorance of how to act in such circumstances. Knowing that Childermass shared his state of mind, and was - so to say - on his side, would have been a great comfort to Segundus. Yet he supposed that Childermass had not it in him to be comforting to fellow human beings, though Segundus had never found him a cruel man - only an ironic one.

“Give it here,” Childermass sighed, suddenly very close.

Segundus had done as he had been bidden, though unsure about what would be worse at that point - dirtying the breeches, or walking half-naked across another man’s room. He had ended up with a complicated solution, preserving his modesty while not buttoning the breeches and tugging them up as he made his way to the pitcher on the night stand. There was a cloth, but he could not say if it had been meant for him, so he stared stupidly in the water, as if it was an enchanted basin (indeed, there was a chance Childermass _did_ enchant it from time to time).

He felt Childermass’s fingers pry the cloth from his and Childermass’s other hand batting his away from the breeches. They slid further down, past Segundus’s knees, down his calves. He had tensed, his shoulders slightly contracting under an unseen weight, but Childermass bit down on them and made him wince.

“I’m not good at shaving, but you don’t seem good at this.”

“Should I?” Segundus snapped, feeling obscurely offended.

“I thought you liked cleanliness,” Childermass replied mildly.

“I do, I mean,” Segundus chewed on his lower lip. “Only I am...”

Childermass hummed in assent, but it would have been uncanny if he had truly guessed Segundus’s trail of thoughts. _He doesn’t understand_ , Segundus reasoned, _still I feel him close_.

The cloth, softened by the water, was wiped gently over his skin. The touches were unhurried, and the clean smell of the soap mingled with the sweat and the fainter note of Childermass’s tobacco. It was only then that Segundus felt truly, unbearably happy. He had taken pleasure in their doings, but this was a more persistent, though far lighter, feeling. He indulged in it, leaning against Childermass, doing nothing but savouring what he was given - he had discovered that Childermass was more generous when he thought himself unnoticed, his consideration sweeter as long as unremarked.

“Do you need help to dress?” Childermass asked, a low drawl against Segundus’s shoulder.

“No,” Segundus answered on an impulse, feeling that he could not hold to the moment any longer.

He had been cleaned and dried, now he buttoned his breeches and smoothed his rumpled shirt. He was sorry to discover that his waistcoat had lost a button - Childermass had often remarked that he had a fiery love for buttons, and Segundus’s protests had always been quite unconvincing. Indeed, if he did not start looking for his lost button it was only because he was overcome with shyness and would not start poking around, being but - a _guest_ , he felt a guest now that it was done.

Childermass’s fingers carded through his hair, combing it though he was not quite looking at him.

“You’re afraid they might guess,” Segundus said, trying not to sound as hurt as he felt.

“I’d be a fool if I wasn’t.” The fingers slipped from his hair, the hands fell by Childermass’s side. “Are you well?”

It was the very question Segundus had wished to be asked; but now that it was out of Childermass’s mouth, his heart closed like a fist.

“I shall be,” he braved.           

He was sore, not pained; worried, not shocked. Happy, yet in the bleakest of moods: as one may feel at the sight of the sea bloated by the storm, captivated by the violent beauty of the sentiment shaking the waves, and still wary of it, for no man in his right mind would not fear the tempest.   

He wished to be with Childermass, not to leave this small room. The cramped bed seemed comfortable enough, if only they would hold each other. He knew, without asking, that it would not be; _worse_ , it might be that Childermass would smile at the idea. If he could not be with Childermass, then he strongly wished to be alone, and that could be accomplished only leaving Hurtfew as soon as possible. Nor did Childermass say or did anything to detain him any longer. He apologised, though, for being unable to keep Segundus’s company on the road to the village - it would not do to be seen walking together.

Segundus agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] _The offenders being hereof convicted by verdict confession or outlawry shall suffer such pains of death and losses and penalties of their good chattels debts lands tenements and hereditaments as felons do according to the Common Laws of this Realm_ (Buggery Act 1533). These lines John Segundus had committed to memory at a relatively young age, as soon as he had understood that he - the boy who was repulsed by violence on men and animals, and liked all things neat and gentle, the boy who longed to put his faith in god, king, and country since his own father appeared a less pleasant candidate - might, one day, be held to such a law and made to answer it, with his life, his reputation, his property. Indirect reflections on this theme can be traced in Segundus’s books and have by now been the topic of several works. The most curious of those is the anonymous and spurious _The Law of England according to John Segundus_.


	13. Quid Pro Quo

_December 23 rd, 1817_

 

Soon it would be Christmas again. _Surprisingly enough_ , considering how the country had changed over little more than a year since Mr Strange and Mr Norrell’s disappearance. One would reasonably expect that the most ordinary occurrences would be put aside in favour of marvels and miracles now that magic was flowing again through the country’s veins, but it looked like most people meant to keep to their traditions. If logs burned with a green cackling fire, if bells rang with the voices of dead husbands and wives, if the candied fruits in cakes were replaced by golden ores and cracked greedy boys’ teeth - well, some would be the wiser for it, and others would get their Christmas anyway.

The country had changed, and yet it had not changed at all, still anchored to its routines and its laws, as well as to all that could be considered _à la mode_ \- as Christmas was becoming among many fashionable circles. Magic had brought chaos to some places; not upheaval though: new opportunities had arisen, but still men and women from the upper classes had the lion’s share.

Change would come, but in due time; that’s what Edward Thorpe thought of the whole business.  

His own contribution would be negligible: a man of practical sense, he was a slow learner in magical matters[1]. He understood that his role in the cause of the English magic would be measured in the support he could offer to others, rather than in devising new spells, harnessing power, or writing books on the subject. He vaguely regretted this state of things, but in an absent-minded, serene way, for he was too kind a man to mind being one step behind, generously offering his help and his advice to those he cared for.

As for Christmas, Thorpe’s sentiment was very tepid. His father had been a covert atheist, his mother had died early. He had never given the solemn celebrations too much thought: he would go to church, but he felt that Christian faith lacked an instinct for progress, and he was a great fan of progress. He usually did not mind indulging other people’s beliefs though, and this year he would not mind at all, since Christmas would offer him a chance to make his intentions known.

It had not escaped his notice how that particular person - the one who had grown increasingly dear to him over the last few months - took delight in the preparations for the Christmas party which would take place at Starecross Hall. It would be the first real party to be held in the house since it had become Mr Segundus’s home, and that accounted for part of the general excitement; but there were other reasons to rejoice. The Learned Society of York Magicians had achieved many laudable things in terms of interpreting and controlling some of the most frequent magical occurrences in the country. In London, authorities had started to give the Northern magicians their due, and many an interesting, appraising article had appeared on the _Times_ , which was now in the habit of regularly welcoming the contribution of some of the accomplished magicians orbiting around Starecross.

Mr Childermass’s active presence in London over the summer had certainly helped, but Thorpe thought that Mr Segundus’s amiable but firm way of dealing with the Learned Society had been as propitious to the admirable results of this first year of magic.

As for reading the King’s Book, it was slow work, slower when Vinculus took in his head to disappear and must be returned to Starecross with many words of persuasion, and more than a cup of wine. But now that the season was at its coldest and thick snow covered the country Vinculus was quite happy with the fireplaces of Starecross.

This was another reason to make merry at this time of the year, together with the evident improvement in Mr Segundus’s condition: he had mostly recovered from his illness, his spirit and his energies both restored by the attentive care of the household. Neither Mr Thorpe - nor anyone else, for what mattered - could help a smile at the sight of Mr Segundus fussing over each detail of the party, eager to see his friends and guests enjoy all that the season and the house had to offer.

Lucy, the housemaid, was Mr Segundus’s most serious and faithful attendant, but his zeal had infected the other ladies as well. Only Lady Pole still pretended to be disturbed, rather than pleased, by the flurry of activities; in fact, a gently mocking word from Miss Greysteel would often suffice to rouse the Lady from her torpor, so Lady Pole would sigh and make faces as she handed paper decorations to Mrs Strange and her young companion. The Honeyfoots were staying at Starecross as well: all of them, including an old aunt of them that they could not really leave alone at Christmas, and who would ask anyone to speak louder, but then infallibly catch a whisper from the opposite corner of the room - Mr Thorpe himself had had a couple of embarrassing experiences about that.

On the contrary Thorpe would not stay at Starecross, but was happy to travel there from York every day. He was at such a point that a look was enough to make him glad to have crossed the frozen country on his horse, and a smile did more to warm him than the mulled wine he received from the housemaid’s hands.

Yet he meant to make the best of his time at Starecross, lest the darling person thought him a languid kind of man: he was under the impression that his energy was appreciated and, after all, it was his involvement in the cause of the English magic that had brought them together at first. So, even while part of the household was engaged in Mr Segundus’s plans for Christmas, Thorpe had offered his help to Mr Tom Levy.

Since they had discovered how diversely the magic of the King’s Letters affected them, they had all strived to reduce the side-effects. Apparently, herbal tea and sensible conversation would do for Mr Levy, soothing his unnerved soul and decreasing the violence of the unkind remarks he would hurl at anyone in sight. While Cook could provide the former, the latter was universally recognised as one of Thorpe’s strong suits, and he was very glad to make himself useful to the young man.

On the day before Christmas’s Eve, Thorpe spent a couple of hours with him, until Mr Levy felt good enough to start writing down his last observations. Discreetly, Thorpe left him to his work and stepped into the library, meaning to employ the next hour with some reading on the history of English magic. He and Mr Segundus shared a liking for the subject, and there would be time to talk about it later, before Thorpe made his return to York (Thorpe always looked forward to this part of his visits, talking to Mr Segundus).

Thorpe did not notice anything upon his entering the library. Nor for several minutes, while he browsed the shelves looking for that new book Mr Segundus himself had showed him last week, urging him to read it. It was not surprising, then, that Thorpe almost jumped out of his skin when he heard him speak.

“On your left.”

“What?”

Thorpe whipped his head around and found none other than John Childermass sitting by the window, one of his legs casually thrown across the sill, the other dangling from it. He would have sworn that Childermass had not been there a moment before, but he was also sure that the door had not been opened and no one had walked in.

Yet it was Childermass’s wont to appear unannounced and always be, with a kind of preternatural insight, where he was needed. One must expect to find him in every cone of shadows, so Thorpe’s surprise was quick to subside and he reminded himself how advanced Childermass’s skills were fabled to be (he had recently heard Dr Foxcastle’s nephew say that John Childermass could fly on a stick on moonless nights, but that was half slander half taradiddle).

“The book you’re looking for.”

“Oh, yes indeed. Here it is,” Thorpe murmured, for the book Mr Segundus had praised to him was exactly where Childermass had said. “How do you…” he started, but fell suddenly silent as he took the volume from the shelf.

Childermass was simply good at _knowing things_ , all sorts of things but especially those connected to people’s wishes and needs: if one man wants anything, that’s when John Childermass comes in and offers the man a bargain.

Which was quite a devilish thing to do, but Thorpe was not so concerned with religion and its hobgoblins to feel perturbed at the mere idea of a sharp, commercial disposition. If he favoured softer manners in others, being a business man himself he could appreciate Childermass’s ways and see them for what they were most of the time: a reliable method of getting things done. And Childermass was generally more attentive when Mr Segundus was involved, so this was enough to explain how he had guessed which book was the object of Thorpe’s search: he must have overheard them and stored the information for later.  

Thorpe opened the book, took a glance at the frontispiece and brushed his fingers against the yellowed paper, anticipating the pleasure the book would give him; but he was aware that Childermass had not moved from the window and felt thus obliged to engage him in polite conversation.

“I believe Mr Levy has made progress: I cannot say I understand much of it myself, but it’s evident that his regime of daily study has taken him farther than his colleagues, if you don’t mind me saying so. Mr Levy has an admirable capacity for concentration, which is a great advantage in a scholar, but also a quick wit, which is what Mr Strange came to admire I think.”

“You shall want to be careful, Mr Thorpe.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Childermass took his leg down from the sill and straightened his back. He looked bored rather than annoyed, so Thorpe did not know what to make of Childermass’s words, which had sounded like a kind of reproach.

“I do no harm assisting Mr Levy with his part of the research,” Thorpe replied, feeling that he had to justify his previous statement though it had not been challenged. “In fact, I believe I’m of service. Although I dare not presume to be ascribed any merit, nonetheless I would consider it unfair to be accused of carelessness. I care for Mr Levy’s well-being, as for any magician’s in this house, and that’s including Miss Green, though there’re many arguments against the teaching of magic to women and servants; she’s both, but I think you do well by her, and by God she’s more talented that I could ever dream to be.”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t have anything to do with our work here at Starecross, sir.”

Thorpe examined Childermass’s face for some clue, but he did not get any.

“Then I honestly don’t know what you are talking about.”

“You don’t.”

It felt like mockery, though the tone had the blank politeness of a servant’s speech. Thorpe was much inclined to let it pass, for he was aware that Childermass’s manners were sometimes unorthodox, and saw many reasons to tolerate them in good spirit. He was almost resolved to leave with the book and find himself a more propitious corner of the house to start his reading, when Childermass addressed him again.

“You do not presume yourself a magician,” he stated.

“I don’t. If it is the presumption of spending part of my time here at Starecross, supporting those who have far more learning than me, that offends you…”

“I’m not offended. It is not my place to be offended by you, Mr Thorpe.”

Childermass stood; sighed. He was in his shirt and waistcoat, and Thorpe could not help thinking that the man had taken to wearing slightly better clothes than he had done once upon a time, when he was in Mr Norrell’s service. He was under the impression that no one would be eager to tell Childermass so, though.

“I’ve been made feel welcome at Starecross,” Thorpe said, studying Childermass carefully for any hint of what might have provoked him. Not that Childermass had displayed any anger or accused him of anything, but the feeling of being mysteriously at fault had already crept into Thorpe’s thoughts. “I hope I haven’t failed to return every kindness and encouragement I have received here.”

“You think yourself a righteous man, Mr Thorpe.”

“I strive to be so. I do not deny the temptations which lie before a man of some wealth and power: I may not know the temptations of magic, being so much slower than others in these matters, but as a business man I’m responsible for the work of many and I hope to do good by them and their families. Yet you seem to think that I’ve been unfair to someone in the household.”

Childermass smiled. It was not a pleasant kind of smile.

“Interesting concept, _fairness_. Not to be confused with justice,” Childermass murmured, as he approached the shelves. For a moment he looked so absorbed in the books that Thorpe suspected he had forgotten all about him and the strange talk they were having; but Childermass spoke again, without looking at him. “There’re things no law would ever prosecute; I would, though.”

“Then it must be you thinking yourself a righteous man, Mr Childermass.”

“I’m not, for I wouldn’t do it for anyone, you see. Not for love of fairness alone.”

Thorpe did not know what to make of such words; nor - for what mattered - of Childermass’s pleased murmur when he found the book he had apparently been looking for. He was annoyed by Childermass’s flippant attitude, the more so since he could not put his finger to _how_ Childermass was being rude: his words were not, his voice only fleetingly so. It was, Thorpe decided, something in his body; Childermass’s very posture spoke of disregard, but damn him if Thorpe could say it aloud without sounding foolish.

“If I can be of any service...” he muttered, feeling rather despondent.

“I’m afraid your work must keep you from Starecross.”

Thorpe made to say that indeed he was lucky to have work enough on his hands, but nonetheless it would not keep him from visiting Starecross; then he realised that it was another kind of _must_ Childermass had spoken, and that Childermass was hardly afraid of anything.

“Nothing sudden, of course,” Childermass continued, leaning against the bookcase. “One must not worry the household; your absence would be too sharply felt otherwise. Yet it often happens that an increase in a man’s engagements alters his routine..”

“But I do not mean to alter it!” Thorpe protested.

“Oh, but you do. You’re the kind of gentleman who always knows what’s better for him. Your successful business speaks of your qualities, sir.”

“You’re...are you threatening me, Childermass?”

“Am I, sir?” Childermass seemed to wonder it aloud. He lowered again his dark gaze. “I’m being, I believe, very much your friend, offering my honest advice on the matter.”

“The matter? What matter in Heaven’s name?” Thorpe asked, frankly astounded at this point.

“We won’t speak of it, for you’re too much of a gentleman.” Childermass flashed him a smile which was all humbleness, as if he was saying _I am but a base creature on the other hand_ , and yet Thorpe felt that he was being taunted. “Then, here’s a friend’s honest advice: it’s not only magic bringing you to Starecross, and you may prove a better scholar in other fields, but I would advise not too much study at once.”

Thorpe coloured furiously. It was not his habit to be put to blushes, but he felt the blood rushing to his cheeks and his face growing hot; like a shamed schoolboy, he hid his trembling hands behind his back.

At least until he realised that he should be far more concerned with that dear person’s reputation than with his own, and the former must have its defence, even if the attacker was most unexpected.

“I don’t know how you came to know this, and I won’t deny it - denying would do me greater harm than you have done with your indiscretion,” Thorpe said, swept by chivalrous fury. He lowered his voice, though he had never raised it; only he felt that something, _someone_ claimed his protection and his timbre became naturally deeper at the warming thought. “It is, you must see, none of your concern and I would be in your debt if you abstained from any interference.”

“I would not have interfered, sir, if I had not believed that things had to be set right.”

“Right according to your opinion, I suppose!”

“Whose else?” Childermass asked in return, an eyebrow raised in disbelief.

“I’m then very glad to inform you that I do not need your assistance, advice, or...neither of us needs it, indeed.”

“I’m not offering,” Childermass replied, and the hint of sharpness in his voice made Thorpe wince.

“I forbid you...” he began, but there were so many boundaries Childermass had just crossed - especially considering that they had never been familiar with each other - that he did not know where to start. Then a sudden revelation hit Thorpe, for he had seen...yes, a flicker of _sentiment_ , something fleeting but undeniably there. “You feel that you’re involved in the matter!”

It was stupid of him not having guessed it since the very beginning. Anyone who made such startling claims on a gentleman’s private life must have an altogether personal interest in it. And Childermass, now that he was no longer a servant, must have a life of his own, _feelings_ of his own. It was indeed the only plausible explanation for the extraordinary conversation they were having.

As soon as Thorpe realised it, he grew flushed. He did not wish to think that she had in any way offered encouragement to Childermass’s attachment - that would imply that she had deceived the both of them, and Thorpe would not ascribe such heartless designs to her; yet he could easily imagine that she had roused Childermass’s admiration: that he could understand. He would not have guessed it from Childermass’s behaviour, and felt relieved at the idea that maybe this meant that the man had not thrust his affection upon her and put her in the disagreeable position of rejecting him.

It was Thorpe’s desire that Miss Honeyfoot did not have to face anything disagreeable. She would have found Childermass’s courtship cumbersome, for she loved Mr Segundus dearly and Mr Segundus would be greatly distressed if any disharmony should weigh on the household. Besides, he was somewhat protective toward Childermass, and one could hardly think of any great decision taken without the two of them - Mr Segundus and John Childermass - coming to an agreement.

“I’m truly sorry,” Thorpe sighed, wondering if in Childermass’s position he would have wished to be spared the sight of his beloved being courted - albeit very discreetly - by another man. He told himself that he would not have asked a gentleman what Childermass had asked him, but he could sympathise with the man’s evident wish to protect his beloved’s feelings from some - in this case completely imaginary - menace. “I see that this must be very painful to you,” he added good-naturedly.

“It doesn’t matter what it is to me,” Childermass replied through his teeth.

“But this is the very point of it!” Thorpe insisted. “If it didn’t matter you would be able to see more clearly, and admit that my behaviour has been nothing but honourable.” The dry laugh which escaped Childermass’s throat offended Thorpe, who was not in the habit of having people doubting his word: his voice grew sharper. “I won’t comply with your wishes, Mr Childermass. I do not need your permission to visit Starecross, though I would rather not do it with your disapproval. I won’t hold your feelings against you, but you cannot hold them against me either. _Her_ feelings should be spared, on the other hand.”

“ _Hers_!” Childermass said scornfully, as if he did not believe Thorpe at all on the subject.

“In these matters we gentlemen must accept our lot and behave as -” he stopped, for he saw such a look on Childermass’s face that he thought it would come to blows.

Now, Thorpe had had a few scuffles in his youth and had not come out of them too badly; he was also confident that his weight was far above Childermass’s and could have probably held himself quite well in a fight. But the idea of engaging in fistcuffs in Mr Segundus’s library was quite frankly ridiculous.

“I’m afraid we cannot agree, nor discuss the matter any further. I won’t do it, for I would betray the trust I’m so very lucky to have won. Of this, you must be aware: I have won it and I mean to keep it. I would rather you not try to come between us and if you were a gentleman...”

“I’m not,” Childermass spat, before Thorpe could realise the gravity of his blunder.

“I did not mean,” he said helplessly, “I did not mean to...but you must see that this is not how things are done. Have you not the sense to see that this may hurt many? Yours is - don’t mind me saying it! - a most honourable wound, and as such must be born.”

Childermass’s eyes narrowed, his lips tightened.

“I see you won’t collaborate. I am sorry, sir.”

“Beware - I shall not stand threats. If it was for me I could...but no, I think I’m useful here at Starecross, and Mr Segundus himself would be distressed if I was to desert his house.”

Only then did Childermass betrayed some uncertainty, but he immediately shook his head.

“I shall leave you to your book, sir. May it make you wiser.”

 _Or I shall_ , Childermass’s dark countenance seemed to suggest. Thorpe said nothing, not trusting his own voice when the man passed so close to him that their clothes brushed. He had almost expected Childermass to bump into him, to try to shove him to the ground, and his shoulders had tensed waiting for the impact. But it did not happen and Childermass was out of the library without any further harm.

 

*

 

_September 18 th, 1817_

 

Jonathan’s face was delightfully familiar.

Thinner, scrawnier, badly-shaven; still, Segundus’s heart leapt in his chest at the sight. Even his greying hair was dear to him, for he had thought that he would never see Jonathan Strange grow older. Mr Norrell, on the other hand, looked like he had always looked. Both faces peered at Segundus: Mr Norrell in patent distress, while Jonathan’s concern was rather mingled with eagerness. _Curiosity_ , Segundus understood.

But it was Mr Norrell who asked it.

“How has he got here, Mr Strange?”

“That’s _the_ question, Mr Norrell.”

Segundus felt quite relieved at discovering that they had not taken to calling each other Jonathan and Gilbert; there was something comforting in knowing that they were sticking to formality, as if it was a piece of their old lives they were carefully preserving between the two of them. Like those cups of tea, poured while the French cannons boomed, of Mr Hadley-Bright’s war stories.

Their faces appeared as if they were looking down at him from the top of a well; yet Segundus did not feel trapped at its bottom. He rather felt _stretched_ , as if he had taken a jump and his feet had forgotten to leave the ground, so that he was now lurching forward, surging up, and still there were wet grass and gooey earth between his toes (he was worried by the fact that he was shoeless, but in a distant, considerate way, more as an afterthought about trying to do better next time).

His limbs ached, his head throbbed, and his heart had grown larger, and heavier, as if soaked with rain; there was some pleasure in it though, a kind of tingling which was akin to glee. There was hardly anything amusing in his current predicament, yet he could have laughed, for the sheer joy of his lungs filling with air while his whole body swelled with magic.

He had never done such magic.

He thought that he had never truly understood before; never realised what lure had been dangled before Jonathan’s and Mr Norrell’s eyes. Childermass’s too.

It was the thought of Childermass, swift and breath-taking like a stab, that kept him from unravelling like an old rope; as if the pain had become the very glue holding him together.

“Do you suppose he can hear us?” Mr Norrell asked.

“I think he sees us, judging from the look on his face, so he may hear us as well.”

“But would you swear that he’s _truly_ John Segundus?” Mr Norrell’s eyes narrowed, staring down at Segundus with that suspicious gaze he must have practiced over the years with all manners of guests.

“I may not be the best authority in the field,” Jonathan answered drily, likely thinking about his moss-oak wife, “but that must be John Segundus’s magic. Can’t you feel it?”

Mr Norrell said something Segundus could not quite catch (their voices had a way to trickle down to him, echoing and ricocheting as if they were talking from different points of the Minster), but he supposed that it was a kind of dismissive comment about the opportunity of judging people and visions according to the flavour of the magic surrounding them.

Segundus made to speak, but he could not: his words rang in his head, loud and clear, but no sound left his mouth. He suddenly felt underwater and wondered if, after all, that might be the bottom of a well.

“I think there’s a thread of roses...” Jonathan started to say, pointing at it.

Segundus shivered, for he had almost _felt_ Jonathan’s finger brushing his mouth. He had not realised how close they were, he had felt so far, so separated from them, quite abandoned between the moor and the high sky. For a moment he hoped that Jonathan would press his hand on his mouth, so that he would be sure that he still had a mouth - he had lost it once, and the thought was so unbearable that he gave a cry.

Mr Norrell covered his ears, while Jonathan seemed delighted.

“He’s breaking it, you see?” he said, almost clapping his hands in joy.

“It may be one of those screeching things we had in June!”

“He doesn’t look violet at all, they were especially violet,” Jonathan pointed out. “Besides, _you_ took care of that infestation, so there’s no reason to think that they must be back. You wouldn’t be so negligent as that.”

“I wouldn’t,” Mr Norrell replied stiffly. “But how could he...this is not even England!”

Segundus did not doubt it: he did not think he had left England, not entirely at least, but he had not stayed either; there was a sweetish scent of toasted almonds in the air, and a rustling sound - _waves_ , Segundus realised. He also noticed that both Mr Norrell and Jonathan were wearing lighter garments than the English weather would advocate for this time of the year.

“He must have found a way...”

“Go on then, ask him,” Mr Norrell urged Jonathan.

“Why shouldn’t be you doing the questioning?”

“You’re the one vouching for his identity: make your inquiries and see if he has any explanation for this,” Mr Norrell insisted, as if this was but a case of trespassing.

“Mr Segundus, can you hear me? How have you managed to reach us?”

Segundus was at a loss: he knew he had done it, but the _how_ was quite confused for the time being, while his magic was completely focused on keeping him in one piece: he felt in two places at once, which vaguely reminded him of that time at the Shadow House, when he had been walking through house and dream both. Only this was tenfold what it had been then; the pull from both sides was stronger and he felt that he was growing thinner and thinner, and would have soon vanished into nothingness if one side did not win over the other.

“You know very well that anyone can walk right into the Pillar unless you and me prevent it,” Mr Norrell warned Jonathan. “And anyone can leave it at their wish, except you and me.”

“At least we can have deliveries,” Jonathan sighed, scratching his temple.

“I hope that you did not ask Mr Segundus to deliver you anything!”

“No but...have you tried any summoning again?”

At that Mr Norrell grew flustered and waved his hand as to dismiss Jonathan’s suspicion.

“If I had been successful you would have known,” he grumbled morosely.

“That’s true,” Jonathan admitted with a swift smile, “but there’s no say how much you may have tried it in secret. This may be the a side-effect.”

 _I’m not a side-effect!_ , Segundus protested, his pride slightly wounded at the suggestion. Still his words, once they had left his mouth, crumbled to silence and never reached the magicians’ ears.

“Since you insist on improving our ability to evaluate magic by its _flavour_ as if we were talking about blends of tea,” Mr Norrell was saying, “you may have noticed that this magic doesn’t taste like mine at all.”

Jonathan did not answer, but Segundus suddenly felt another magic - besides his own, and that of the Pillar. It was Jonathan’s, as thundering and glamorous as ever, reaching down for Segundus like a wave meant to sweep him higher and higher. Something went wrong though, for the wave of Jonathan’s magic bubbled around Segundus, licking and dabbing at him, but could not get hold of him.

And Segundus felt himself slipping farther away.

“You cannot get him here if you have no idea how he has got mid-way,” Mr Norrell pointed out.

“Can you make him speak?” Jonathan asked, looking a little paler for his thwarted effort.

Mr Norrell frowned, then his eyes narrowed. His magic was not as strong as Jonathan’s, but it was also more precise: it pried Segundus’s mouth open and wriggled on his tongue, which made him nauseous, until he started coughing up words. It was unpleasant, leaving his throat raw and his mouth bitter.

“Childermass?” Mr Norrell said.

There was a kind of wonder in his voice, wonder and a long, old pain; as if he had forgotten it, or rather carefully disposed of it, and now the pain had crept back to lay at his feet and he did not quite know what to do with it, aged and dusty as it was. Segundus was hurt by it, and in some way offended, for he thought Mr Norrell had no right to such pain.

He also felt ashamed: Mr Norrell’s magic could make him talk and he had found no better words than Childermass’s name. He tried to explain that this was not strictly Childermass’s doing, unless in a sense - as in: Childermass’s absence leaving him all the time and the sorrow and the rage to work his magic up into a storm. _Driving_ him, somehow, as Childermass had done for years: driving him like he drove others, so that people found themselves exactly where Childermass wanted them, needed them.

But Mr Norrell’s magic was working only in fits and starts, scattering words and thoughts.   

“If Childermass has sent him here, then where is he?”

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

Mr Norrell seemed uncomfortable, but it was such a frequent look on his face that it was hard to say if there was anything making him so _particularly_ , or if it was a more general state of being. Yet Segundus could not help searching Mr Norrell’s features for a trace of what his own heart experienced. He dreaded to see through Mr Norrell’s composure, nonetheless he yearned for that bizarre companionship: _you had him and you lost him, how does it feel?_ , he wished to ask.

He did not, obviously, but rather tried to explain how he had managed to reach the Pillar.

“ _Quid pro quo_ [2] _?_ ” Jonathan frowned. “That’s Latin, isn’t it? John Segundus, what a schoolmaster you are!”

If it had not been said so affectionately, Segundus would have felt offended; but Jonathan’s tone was kind and it seemed they were working it out at last.

“The Pillar doesn’t make mistakes,” Mr Norrell began.

“But it does. It did, before,” Jonathan beamed, looking upon his companion in captivity.

Segundus had never thought before that Jonathan and Mr Norrell were well-suited. Now it was right before his eyes, and he wondered how Mr Norrell could ever manage it. He was not a nice man, and did not especially like his fellow human beings; still, he had found companionship, not once but twice. Childermass, the most unlikely of servants, had pledged himself to him ( _to magic_ , Childermass would say, but it was not all of it); Jonathan, the most unlikely of pupils, had now returned to his side.

It might be that neither Childermass nor Jonathan had played their parts neatly, nonetheless Mr Norrell must have felt less lonely than Segundus had been over the years - _is it fair?_

“The Pillar could not see any difference between you and me...”

“So there’s no reason for it to see any difference between us and Mr Segundus. Are you not a magician, sir?” Jonathan asked Segundus, sounding very pleased with himself, as if that had been his merit.

 _I am_ , Segundus admitted. He did not try to say it; it was his magic which flared up, like rain falling on the sky, pouring from the very earth and stones under Segundus’s feet.

“I don’t see any other magician though,” Mr Norrell objected. “And you’ve heard the tales...the whole English country is swarming with them! Shouldn’t we have been _invaded_ by them?”

Segundus could just picture Mr Norrell as he travelled across and beyond Faerie, pouring into any more or less sympathetic ear his complaints about the state of things in England, where now any man or woman could lay a claim on magic. He might have changed enough not to lie awake at night at the thought of how many had now access to magic learning; yet Segundus doubted that Mr Norrell could ever face the subject with a light heart.

“Well, the Pillar is not picking up any magician we come across, not in this world or others.”

“And we aren’t in England. Are we?”

“I thought we weren’t, but I have my doubts. It _tastes_ like England.”

“It’s his magic. It’s very _domestic_.”

Segundus’s temper rose a little at Mr Norrell’s comment; but the look of nostalgia on his and Jonathan’s face soothed his pride. They were certainly enjoying their travelling, but they had also grown sentimental about their country, as it always happen with Englishmen abroad. Mrs Strange’s own account suggested that neither her husband nor Mr Norrell meant to rush back - their search for an enchantment which might bring them to England was not a priority - and yet they must love complaining to each other about their exile.

“He must have done something,” Jonathan mumbled. “He must have caught the Pillar’s attention.”

“You mean like...drawing the curse on himself?” Mr Norrell blinked, but did not seem horrified at the idea - in fact, vaguely interested.

“Yes, but as to _how_ he may have managed that...if only he could speak plainly!”

“Indeed, if one takes the trouble of appearing in someone’s tureen, he should at least ensure his own ability to converse.”

Segundus felt very much discomfort at the idea that he had managed to appear into a tureen of all things, clearly interrupting the gentlemen’s meal. He had not focused on _where_ he would appear, believing that he would be delivered inside Hurtfew Abbey, more or less. Apparently it was _less_ rather than more, and it was not even a mirror, a basin, or a well. A tureen seemed very undignified for a magician; one could be scooped up from a tureen. And, as if to add to Segundus’s disappointment, Jonathan said:

“He’s not _appeared_ in the tureen, he’s making his way through it. I suppose the curse was trying to get him in, where you and I are; and we were about to dine, so you see that the tureen was the closest the curse could get him.”

Segundus felt only partially relieved at the idea that the tureen had been the Pillar’s idea and not his.

“Can we fish him out of it? The house doesn’t like it.”

“I know it doesn’t. Too many of us around...”

“The curse was made for one. Two it can tolerate; three...”

“He must have done something so striking that the Pillar has turned its eye on him.”

 _I’ve just called them all_ , Segundus sighed without sound.

“A summoning then,” Mr Norrell rightly guessed. “He must have asked rivers, stones, and trees to bend their knees to him. To answer his call. That’s the way to do it.”

“Then they have answered! They must have answered if the Pillar is trying to take him!”

“So much magic is bound to attract good and bad things alike; and the Pillar can’t have him, we’re one too many already! We cannot take him in, Mr Strange. This must end here.”

“Mr Segundus,” Jonathan said, ignoring Mr Norrell and again trying to get hold of Segundus. “My friend, what have you done? You aren’t breaking the curse, you’re just...breaking _into_ it.”

He knew it; somehow, as he had been preparing himself for the spells, he had been struck by the thought that this might very well result in his own imprisonment in the Pillar rather than the magicians’ escape. He would have been ashamed to admit it to his friends - to speak of it, for instance, with Mrs Strange - but at the time it had not seemed so important, one way or another. He had just wanted to accomplish something.

It had been, in retrospect, a selfish pursuit.

“We must leave him behind,” Mr Norrell insisted. “A coach with too many passengers...oh, can’t you feel it?”

Segundus himself felt it. The Pillar of Darkness was more than a place: it was a state of existence, that’s why it could follow Strange and Norrell around. They were not its prisoner; rather, the Pillar was their prisoner, caught in their magic and their sorrow, amplifying both and thriving upon their minds. Now it wanted the same things from Segundus, but there was much confusion about it, as if it did not know what to do with so many magicians at once. Segundus supposed that if either Jonathan or Mr Norrell decided that it was a very good time to try to break free from the Pillar’s clutch, one of them could. Then two magicians would remain in the Pillar, and that was as fair as bargains come.

Only neither Jonathan nor Mr Norrell did anything of the sort.

He wondered if they had ever discussed it, deciding that they would leave the Pillar together or not at all, or if it just happened that way, that magic came first and the Pillar was an excellent way of travelling with all the comforts of one’s house and library. It must be a relief for Mr Norrell, Segundus could understand that. But Jonathan had a wife, he must have hopes, expectations beyond this darkness; Segundus’s mind could not accept that he would ever willingly choose... _but he does. He did._

The disappointment cut so deep that he did not immediately register it, though the pain would haunt him in the days to come, through the fever and the nightmares. Now, though, there was something worse than disappointment at work, something which was like _plants_ \- it had roots, it had leaves and branches - if plants could go hungry. The steady crawling of a plant toward sun and nourishment is itself a kind of hunger; but this was wolf-hunger, hawk-hunger. It was quick and flaming, gnawing and cracking, leaving gashes of cold around Segundus. He grew afraid.

“I told you, I told you it wouldn’t like it!” Mr Norrell cried.

“If it’s Hurtfew, if it’s yours...” Jonathan began, his eyes flashing at the other magician, but he seemed confused.

“It’s not my magic. It’s not even _his_ ,” Mr Norrell interrupted him. “Something is _using_ the curse, but it doesn’t like it.”

“But this must be it, he must...they must have discovered something, learnt enough, if he has found a way to the Pillar!”

“Yes, and now he will snap in two if he doesn’t go back.”

Segundus knew that Mr Norrell was right. He had almost succeeded, he had seen them and heard them talk, he had showed himself; but now magic was bleeding from him, and he thought that he might also be bleeding his very blood now - there were things squeezing him, breathing had become harder, and his wrists and his ankles had grown numb as if he had been tied hand and foot.

“We must help him then,” Jonathan said.

 _No, no, no_ , Segundus thought obstinately. It was not to being sent back that he objected, but to the failure of his spell, to the way it had worked and brought him so far only to desert him!

“Yes,” Mr Norrell replied, nodding.

Jonathan moved his hands - his nice manly hands, that Segundus had liked to watch perform spells, a long time ago - while Mr Norrell, who had always disliked what he liked to call _theatrical hogwash_ , only closed his eyes and knitted his brow.  

Segundus had magic of his own now, and he used that magic against theirs. Not against them, he did not mean to fight, but he meant to resist with all his heart. They did not expect it, so at first there was a great deal of shouting over the growing noise of their magic (in truth it was mainly Jonathan’s, for Mr Norrell’s and Segundus’s were of a quieter kind); then Segundus felt that he was being overpowered. It was not only them, it was also the other thing - or _things_ , he was not really sure how many - trying to pull him in; what _in_ was he did not know either, but he felt sure that it was dark and cold, and very narrow, so narrow that it would have squeezed his soul out of him.

Then there was gravity, which had nothing against him in particular, and still worked against his magic, just by reminding his body that it should return to the earth to which it belonged. Human bodies had never been meant to fly, to jump, to stretch across worlds like impossible bridges. He had outdone himself, but gravity would not tolerate it much longer.

Besides, Segundus thought that there was another with them.

A man with dark hair and dark eyes; long hair, terrible eyes. He did not know him and yet _did_ know him. It was as if he had already heard his voice, his thick accent.

“I’m very sorry, my friend,” Jonathan was telling him. “You did well, you have found a way. But you cannot walk it alone.”

 _I shouldn’t have to!_ , Segundus thought, equal parts enraged and strangely dispassionate.

He had, he saw it very clearly now, utterly failed: he would be cast out of the Pillar, and he had not saved anyone, least of all himself. He was also in danger, but he felt more humiliated than afraid.

He started to fall, and magic thundered around him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] A few notes about Edward Thorpe: in 1817 he was 48 years old and by then one of the most pursued bachelors in Yorkshire. Over the previous ten years, since the disbandment of the Learned Society, the volume of his business had increased to such a point that he was now regarded as a very agreeable guest in most upper-class houses in York and Leeds. People still noticed that his ideas were quite modern and disapproved of his habit of growing too chivalrous to minor and eccentric characters; besides, he was a little too practical where he should be romantic, and a little too dreamy when common sense was required. Yet they all agreed that all this might be overlooked in consideration of his manners, his wealth, and his good spirit. The fact that by 1817 Edward Thorpe was still unmarried was mainly ascribed to his devotion to work, though a few malignant voices suggested instead that he had long disregarded the local beauties as too shallow, clearly feeling that he himself was a scholarly type (he was not, but this disappointment did not keep him from a happy and long life).   
> 
> [2] _Quid pro quo_ , or _qui pro quo_ , means: “something for something else”. While in the English language this Latin phrase indicates an exchange of goods or services, or generally a favour for a favour, in the Romance languages the very same meaning must be expressed by another Latin turn of words ( _do ut des_ ); _quid pro quo_ , in fact, describes an erroneous exchange of one thing for another, maintaining the original Latin meaning of substitution. It is interesting to note that _Quid Pro Quo_ would later become the title of a short essay penned by John Segundus and aimed at classifying the different kinds of substitutions which can be operated by magic. John Segundus’s categories are still in use today.   


	14. Pillow Talk

_January 14 th, 1816_

 

Habits help: routine anchors the mind to menial functions, keeps the heart running from one feeling to another, leaping over the great chasm of misery, and puts muscles and bones and senses to work.

It was a good thing that he was a man of habits in many regards, and that he could be resourceful enough to build a pattern of practical activities to keep himself busy through the day, so he would not succumb to gloomy moods. Still, since he was also a man of ideas, it proved difficult to thwart his mind’s proclivity for mulling over the facts, as if there might be another secret he had not yet discovered. But it was only the mystery of pain, or rather the enigma of the heart’s capacity for pain: the layers of hurt and disappointment tightening around his soul, making it heavy and shapeless like a badly wrapped present, and the bitter aftertaste that lingered each time his heart lunged forward, trying to grasp a piece of beauty, or hope.

A month after John Childermass’s visit to Starecross, Segundus felt as if he had just recently recovered from some unnamed illness. Still slightly stunned, inconsistently hopeful at any sign of improvement but easily disappointed at each relapse, he felt weak and strangely detached, afraid of strangers and anything which might alter his carefully constructed routine.

He worried greatly about the fate of Starecross. He had written to Jonathan Strange and conferred with Mrs Lennox, but it was already clear that the latter’s wealth could do little against Mr Norrell’s influence; as for the former, no reply had been delivered so far. Segundus had expected Mrs Lennox to ask him to leave Starecross. On the contrary, she had urged him to stay in the house if it did not inconvenience him too much (the house not having been refurbished and servants not having been hired yet), as if she believed that deserting the house would mean accepting their defeat.

Segundus did not mind it. He had, at first, for the house was the very backdrop of the scene his mind played over and over ( _he was right there, and there he turned to look at me as if he wanted to say something more_ ). Later he had grown to appreciate the kind of solitude Starecross offered. It was the perfect hideout: he could burrow his tired self in the old smell of the house, losing his way from one room to the next, no witness to his fever of sorrow.

That morning, though, he told himself that he had waited too long to start _undoing_ things. When he had been making plans for his school he had looked for a housemaid, and he had found a girl who had seemed suitable for the task. A dreamy kind of girl, they had told him, but he had not seen why that should be a problem at all. Indeed, there was a chance that this was the only kind of girl who would fit in his school for magicians.

She was named Lucy Green and she must know that the work he had promised her would not be, after all. He disliked doing it by post, but he could not invite the girl to Starecross either: it might be very improper considering that at the moment he was a bachelor living alone. So he would offer explanations and apologies in a letter, and wish her good luck in finding another position very soon.

He was penning the closing sentence when he heard someone banging at the door. It was not expecting anyone, and it sounded too imperious to be Mr Honeyfoot’s knock. A passing thought warned Segundus from going to the door - _it may be a vagrant!_ \- but his feet were already taking him there, in that absent-minded fashion which went with his grieving heart.

The shock of seeing Childermass almost threw him to the ground.

It had been very foolish of him not to have looked out of the window to ascertain the visitor’s identity before opening the door; but he had been sitting in one of the rooms on the ground floor, overlooking the back garden, and the window panes in the front were so horribly dirty (it had been a windy, rainy December, whipping the house and caking it with filth), that he would not have been able to see anyone, even if he had tried.

“Good morning, sir,” Childermass said politely, touching his black hat.

He was there, flesh and bones; more bones than flesh actually, since he looked almost _starved_. Not that Childermass had ever been remarked upon as a healthy-looking fellow. In fact he had always been all edges and sharp angles, giving at the same time an impression of paleness and darkness. Grim too, and not a bit commendable. But he looked worse than usual.

“Don’t,” Segundus said, almost choking on the word.

Childermass tilted his head, with a look on his face that seemed to say _I haven’t done anything yet_. Segundus felt the impulse to slap him. _How dare you_ , he thought furiously: showing himself at Starecross, good-day-ing Segundus as if the very sight of John Childermass at his door did not make him want to do something foolish, like smashing porcelain or screaming at the top of his lungs.    

“May I?” Childermass asked, marking his request with an allusive gesture directed just above Segundus’s shoulder, to the inside of the house, as if he had mistaken Segundus’s raging silence for confusion.

“I don’t think so,” Segundus said.

This time he had done better: the words had come out stiff, heavy as stones; no quivering about them.

“I haven’t come empty-handed,” Childermass replied, taking a step forward. He must have noticed the way Segundus cowered before his advance, for he immediately stopped and took a good look at him. “I promised I’d use my influence to help you, given the chance. I have a business proposition, sir, but to hear about it you must let me in now.”

There was an edge to his last words, as if he was already running out of patience, or time. It dawned on Segundus that this was part of Childermass’s power, his shamelessness in putting you at a disadvantage: he was the kind of man who manages to be rude and blame you for his rudeness; he mistreats you and then explains that you brought this upon yourself. Hence the feeling of having been somehow and mysteriously defeated which usually followed a conversation with Childermass.

Segundus looked away. Childermass had tied his horse to the lowest branch of the bare tree outside the gate. The bulky mount seemed unconcerned by the cold and was munching at some moss growing on the squared, darkened stones of the garden wall. The sky was milky white, the sun a halo of indistinct light; it might snow later. It was very quiet on the moor, no birds flew, no human being broke the waves of browns, pale greens, pinks.

“I don’t want to do any business with you, Childermass.”

“I won’t do myself the injustice of asking _why_ , I’m aware that you have reasons to distrust me.” A pause. “I gave you those reasons,” he said, but not as if he was asking forgiveness for it. As if he was just making a remark on the stonemasonry of the house, establishing a fact that had nothing to do with him after all. The fact that he had said _I_ and _you_ was not enough to make it personal. “Now I can give you the means to start over. It would be a pity if a gentleman of your qualities and moral standing had no pursuit.”

The praise made Segundus colour with displeasure.      

“A gentleman of my qualities and my moral standing would have nothing to do with John Childermass.”

“That might be true, sir,” Childermass admitted lightly. “But I have been your friend, though I see that I was not a good one in your eyes. Will you let me act as your friend, this time, rather than your enemy?”

“Mr Norrell sent you here.”

“He did not in fact. I came of my own will.”

“So he has nothing to do with this business proposition of yours, has he?”

“I didn’t say so. I’m his man of business, Mr Segundus, but I can be your friend at the same time.”

“I regret to inform you that this is not possible at all!” Segundus cried in distress.

There was a flash of black over the moor, ravens taking flight and scattering in the sky. Realising how loud he had been, Segundus brought both his hands to his mouth, covering it as if that could keep him from spilling his heart right there and then, on the threshold of an empty house. His eyes smarted.  

“I think I might do with sitting for a while, sir,” Childermass suddenly said. His voice had dropped; not his gaze, which was still burning on Segundus’s face, not giving him any privacy to retreat into.

 _I think I might do without seeing you for evermore_ , Segundus thought, but the lie bit back at him, and left him speechless with the miserable concoction of pain and shame which had tormented him since before Christmas. For, in the attempt to locate the wound and minister to it, he had had to look very closely into his own heart, inspecting the depth and nature of the injury. What he had found there had made him bleed anew, because it was bad enough what Childermass had done to him, but what Segundus had inflicted to himself - letting himself grow so encumbered by sentiment - was far worse.

 _Close the door_ , Segundus told himself. It would be that simple. And yet it would be nearly impossible, especially since there must be a reason for Childermass’s unexpected visit. But he needed to keep himself together more than he needed to know what that reason was; he had to save what was left of his pride, and possibly have several cups of tea in the old kitchen to calm his nerves. He even started to do it, pushing the door ever so slightly, feeling its weight up his arm, calculating how little strength he would need to slam it close and keep Childermass out of Starecross, though not out of his mind - that would come later, in time.

It was then that Segundus’s usually very good observation skills - though it must be said that they had always had a blind spot when it came to Childermass - _worked_. Childermass was, indeed, very pale; _grey_ , now that Segundus was taking a better look at him. His mouth was colourless, his eyes sunken in and luminous with fever. He did not seem likely to stand on his feet for much longer.    

“What happened to you?!” Segundus gasped, while his eyes flickered to Childermass’s right hand, which was trying to get a hold on the door. The sight of Childermass’s long, elegant fingers failing to get a grasp on the wood, as if it was slippery or burning hot, made Segundus obscurely afraid.

Childermass’s next word fell on Segundus’s ears like the tolling of bells.

“I have been shot, sir.”

 

When Childermass opened his eyes, the first thing he said was:

“I wrote you a letter.”

Segundus had received it, shortly after Christmas. It was a polite sort of letter, inquiring about his health. It did not mention what had happened between them, not regarding the school which would not be, nor that time in Childermass’s room at Hurtfew. It said, in short, _nothing_. Segundus had not replied.

Childermass said so, after a long silence.

“You did not write back.”

It was unfortunate that Segundus’s own room was the only one available: in the others no fire had been lit and the bedding was still in the trunk Mrs Lennox had sent several weeks before. The sight of Childermass lying in his bed, with his head propped on his pillow and his beautiful hands resting on the thick blanket, did not agree with Segundus. He felt that Childermass had, once again, _intruded_ \- even if Segundus himself had helped him up the stairs and into the room, guiding him to the bed as he felt Childermass’s consciousness falter, his body almost lax in his arms. He had not thought he would be able to do anything of the sort, but he had discovered that Childermass weighted little, after all; heavy was Segundus’s heart.

Segundus was very careful not to hold Childermass’s gaze as he removed the bandage. He had already divested him of his overcoat (before going upstairs) and then stripped his torso to the bare skin. Now the clothes were on a chair, roughly folded. If Segundus had been able to do what he was doing without looking at Childermass’s body he would have done so; but he needed to be careful to not hurt him, so he had to keep his eyes on Childermass’s chest, which seemed narrower than he remembered. The arms, deceptively slim under the old clothes, still looked strong enough to hold a man; the black hair on the forearms stood up when Segundus touched Childermass’s shoulder to undo the knot in the bandage.

“When?” he asked quietly, as he slowly unwound the cloth.

“You don’t need to,” Childermass said. His voice was very low, dry. “I could do it myself.”

But his hands remained where they were, and he was still under Segundus’s ministration. At Segundus’s silence, Childermass gave a noise, which was an attempt at laughing but came out quite badly.

“Several days ago,” he replied at last.

“It will not be a very good dressing,” Segundus warned him. “You should have it changed again by a chemist or a doctor, before you...” _before you return to Mr Norrell_.

He gently nudged Childermass, then helped him raise from the pillow, so that he could take the old, stained bandage away. He felt Childermass’s breath warm against his cheek and the brush of his tangled, damp hair; he thought that Childermass was gingerly leaning against him, more than it was needed by the manoeuvre.

“You are very good to me,” Childermass murmured, making Segundus hands slip and tremble.

“I don’t want to be,” he said.

He could feel Childermass’s immediate retreat, as if his body had shrunk to a small bundle of bones and nerves. It pained Segundus, but he could not do any differently: he could not let him sweet-talk while he bled in his bed. As if he had guessed his thoughts, Childermass said:

“I will stain your sheets.”

It sounded as if it bothered him a great deal, more than the bleeding itself.

“I shall wash them.”

Then Segundus coloured because he might have never told Childermass that he was in the habit of washing part of his clothes by himself even when he lived in Lady Peckett’s Yard, to spare some money. He was not bad at it, and he secretly took pride in the whiteness of his laundry.

“I should...” Childermass started to say, but they never discovered what he should do - _wash the bedding himself? Stop bleeding on it?_ \- because Segundus gasped when the compress came away. He let it fall, for a moment frozen at the sight of the wound caked with blood. “You don’t have...I don’t need...” Childermass said, a fretful edge in his voice which sobered Segundus up.

“Be still. I’ll clean it, you have been bleeding but I don’t think it’s going bad. The blood, I mean, looks clean.”

Segundus had no experience with firearm wounds (and was very glad of it). It looked like this one could have been a great deal nastier, and it would surely leave a thick, ugly knot of scar tissue behind.

“Were you in London when you were shot?”

“Yes.”

 _Oh you impossible man_ , he thought, wondering how Childermass had ever managed to get on the horse and stay on it all the way to the North, bearing such a wound. But in truth, Segundus knew exactly _how_ : by sheer power of will, because Childermass was relentless and unmerciful, and would not let himself be left behind while the world spun and spun.

It was a miracle that he had not fallen unconscious right at Starecross’s door, before knocking, or - worse - somewhere on the road winding down the moor, where no one would have found him for days. The idea was enough to make Segundus shiver. He hid his anguish, strategically leaving the bedside to fill a basin with water and get a clean cloth to wash the wound.

Childermass’s eyes, heavy-lidded, followed him. He said nothing, though, and sunk a little into the pillow; he was still horribly pale. Once Segundus had wiped the skin and gently scraped the dried blood away, the wound looked less ugly. It was an irregular hole and he could clearly see where they had cut him to take the bullet out; there was no nasty smell about it, fortunately enough, but Segundus thought it would be better to wet it with some alcohol. Childermass hissed at the treatment, but remained still enough to let Segundus finish. The wound was now dressed with a fresh cloth that Segundus had cut, out of Childermass’s sight, from a spare sheet.

“I think the bleeding was due to the strain you put yourself through,” Segundus said, as he threw the old bandage in the fire. “Riding in such a condition!”

He shook his head, watching the cloth swiftly disappear within the flames.

“I thought you would be squeamish,” Childermass said from the bed.

“I suppose you expected me to be as incompetent in this as in other matters.”

It came out so savagely that Segundus regretted his words a moment after he had spoken them. He shifted, so that he could no longer see Childermass’s face, hidden as it was behind one of the bedposts and the canopy folds.

“I know that there’s much about you I haven’t appreciated as I should have done.” A pause. “Will you come closer? I would like to look at you.”

Segundus’s feet moved of their own volition. He felt himself blush at the betrayal of his body, which slipped back within Childermass’s grasp at the mere sound of the man’s voice. At least he managed to avert his gaze and fix it on a little crease in the pillowcase, three inches left Childermass’s face.

“Since you did not answer my letter, would you now tell me how you’ve been?”

“I shall make tea,” Segundus said gloomily.

“I don’t want any bloody tea,” Childermass snapped. His breath caught in pain though, and Segundus’s eyes immediately flashed back to Childermass’s face and body, looking for a way to ease it. Anxiety must have been so evident on his face that Childermass’s hand sought his. “Be still. I shall not die in your bed.”

Segundus made a strangled noise and took his hand away. He turned his head.

“How did it happen?”

“It was an accident.”

“You were shot by accident. In London.”

“Yes. The...shooter did not mean to harm me.”

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“I’m in bed,” Childermass answered with the ghost of a smile. Segundus frowned. “I didn’t like staying in bed. I had things to take care of.”

There was something in the way he had said it which made Segundus’s heartbeat accelerate. He curbed his heart, reminding himself that Childermass was Norrell’s man, and had acted as such.  

“Your business proposal,” Segundus said flatly.

“Yes. There’s a woman, a proper lady, who needs assistance. Her husband wishes to find a suitable establishment where she can be offered comforts and safety in equal parts.”

“What does _she_ wish?”

“I’m afraid her wishes are not to be taken into account at this point, sir. She is ill, her mind is...confused. She might hurt herself and I have been given to think that she had tried that before. I think you could help her.”

“I’m not a doctor, and...”

“You’re a gentleman and a good man. You have a house far from any disturbance and where discretion could be guaranteed.” Childermass made a pause; then, quietly, he added: “And you need an occupation.”

 _I meant to have one, but then you and your Mr Norrell took it from me_.

“How does Mr Norrell fit in?”

“He has an interest in the family. But he would not want to visit the lady here.”

“You said he didn’t know you would come here.”

“Yes.”

Segundus frowned. He was under the impression that the more they talked, the more he got tangled in Childermass’s mysteries, without understanding more of them.

“I don’t make promises lightly, sir,” Childermass continued, his voice familiarly reassuring - _and so very dangerous_ , Segundus told himself. “I told you I would send business your way, and this is what I’m doing. I’m also acting in my interest and in Mr Norrell’s interest. In the lady’s interest too, I believe. This doesn’t mean that I’m not thinking of your advantage.” Segundus squeezed his eyes shut for a moment; he would have covered his ears with his hands if he had not thought it undignified. He hated Childermass’s calm, perfectly reasonable tone. He heard him sigh. “I understand that you are very angry at me.”

“You understand nothing,” Segundus murmured, now obstinately looking away.

“Would you look at me, sir?” Segundus did not. “It couldn’t have been any different, you know very well Mr Norrell’s opinions, and I believe it’s wise: it’s not the right time for a school for magicians. Could I ever possibly let you see that?”

Segundus only shook his head.

“You mean to thwart all my attempts at reconciliation,” Childermass concluded grimly.

In retrospect this was the moment when he should have left the bedroom, taken away the basin filled with blood-pink water, gone to the kitchen and warmed some broth to restore Childermass’s strength before sending him on to York, or Hurtfew, or wherever he could no longer hurt Segundus. But, while Childermass had always been comfortable with _not_ saying things, Segundus had to speak: he could not stand to be accused of obstinacy or hardness, without reminding Childermass - and himself - what he had suffered at the hands of the man lying in his bed.

“Though my whole experience of these things amounts to you,” Segundus began, in a voice trembling with wounded pride, “I believe bedding someone to obscure their judgement is a cruel thing to do.”

He could not help the temptation of looking at Childermass, to see if the words meant anything to him. He saw a flash of confusion, then an irate frown.

“I didn’t do it for...” Childermass started. Then he blinked, as realisation slowly dawned upon him. “Was I, I mean, was it your first experience of _that_ kind?”

“How does it matter?” Segundus retorted.

It was not the point, not at all. His lack of experience might have made him more eager and naive, and so an easier prey to Childermass’s deceit, but the deceit would have been as callous even if he had had a dozen lovers before Childermass. The man did not seem to share his opinion though, because for the first time he looked actually distracted at the thought of what he had done.

“We should have talked about it,” he said urgently, while he struggled to raise himself from the pillow. He slipped, gritted his teeth together, and Segundus did not know what to do - he wanted to help but he thought that if he touched Childermass right now it would only make things worse for both of them.

“You did not seem keen on talking at the time,” Segundus said, more sharply than he had intended.

He remembered the urge of the moment, the pushing and embracing, the kisses and the teeth upon his neck, and the way the desk had bore their weight, creaking and swaying. The smell of their sweat, and the disconcerting warmth of Childermass’s seed inside him.

“Neither did you!” Childermass’s hand hit the mattress in anger. Then, more softly, he said: “If I had known...”

“What?” Again Segundus looked up into Childermass’s face, and what a strange sight was the inner turmoil which seemed to turn his eyes to liquid black. “What then? Tell me, would you have let me alone?” Segundus asked, an edge of misery creeping between his words. “Is that your regret, that you had to cope with my inexperience?”

“ _Cope_?” Childermass repeated, raising his voice. Again he made to rise. He managed it only because he caught Segundus’s forearm and used it for leverage. It looked as if he meant to shake Segundus from head to foot, except that he had not the strength for it; this seemed to spur his anger. “Can you be so foolish? If I had known I would have done it anyway, that’s the man I am.”

He let go of Segundus’s arm, falling back against the pillow. He looked defeated. It was a terrible sight, as if some mysterious part of the mysterious John Childermass had fractured, and that part was, against all odds, very important to the functioning of the man as a whole. It took Segundus a moment to realise that it was sadness Childermass was showing at last.

His compassion stirred by the sight, Segundus almost took Childermass’s hand (he would have brought it to his lips, to kiss it gently); but he caught himself in time.

“Norrell’s man,” Segundus said, and the harsher he spoke, the more his voice trembled. “That’s the man you are, I’ve learnt it very well. A man who stops at nothing to follow his master’s orders.”

“Say what you want to say,” Childermass encouraged him. He looked sad no longer, his black eyes were burning with rage. “Out with it, sir.”

“You...you meant to keep an eye on me. To control my actions. You set out to...to beguile me.”

“There may have been a time when I played with your inclinations toward me. I invited your attentions and made myself agreeable to you- ”

“You were never agreeable!”

“I made myself agreeable to you,” Childermass repeated firmly, despite the interruption, “but I had never planned to take it farther than that, observing you. I did not need anything else, I meant to see what you would do with your freedom, since you were the only other magician left, though a theoretical one, but...”

“Did you spy on me with your cards?” Segundus asked, in a sudden inspiration.

“I asked them about you. And about your plans for the school, if that’s what you want to know.”

“I thought...I thought once or twice that I could feel your magic when you were not here.”

Childermass looked surprised at this piece of intelligence, to the point that his voice was kinder when he said:

“No matter what you think of me, but I’m not in the habit of using my body, or anyone else’s, to such ends.” He closed his eyes, his lashes quivering ever so slightly. “It was my choice, and only mine, to pursue you further.”

“Why should you...”

“I wanted you,” Childermass cut in, with a grimace. “And if I had known, I would have been gentler. That’s also the man I am.”

He was looking at Segundus now, some colour in his cheeks, but a deadly tiredness about him. Segundus would have been unable to say what came over him, to goad Childermass into speaking when it was clearly taking its toll and he should have let the man rest - no matter what he had done, how cruel, how blind...

“Loving him doesn’t make you heroic, you know. It makes you pathetic.”

Childermass’s breath caught. He said nothing, only pursued his lips and shook his head minutely.

“Do you desire him that way?” Segundus insisted.

“I don’t desire nor imagine him that way. It’s not what you think.”

 _I think that you’re in love with Mr Norrell somehow, but so used to denying it that you wouldn’t recognise it anyway._ He, Segundus, understood that it was a thing made of loyalty and gratitude, it was love for magic which could be very easily mistaken for love for the magician (had not he been so fond of Mr Strange, and so taken with his spells?), and also ambition on Childermass’s part - the convoluted desire to rise higher than his station in life should admit. But there was also sincere, deep attachment somewhere, and that cut into Segundus’s pride.

“I understand you don’t wish to taint your feelings for him with base desires,” he said, almost nauseous with self-pity. “For those you...”

“Then you won’t object to spending the night with me.”

Segundus blinked, then he blushed in anger and shame..

“This time you already know what I want, don’t you?” Childermass insisted. He was furious, they both were, and Segundus felt as if there was not enough air to breathe in the room. But Childermass soldiered on, and his voice was so dry that it seemed to scrape Segundus’s skin away. “You don’t need to worry about an unnamed price for a fuck, this time.”  

“You are unwell,” Segundus replied, shivering, already backing away.

He did it in horror for himself first of all, for he felt drawn to Childermass despite everything, despite his sorrow, and the concern for the man’s wound. The idea that even after what had happened his thirst would not be dampened scared Segundus, and drove him downstairs - he almost tripped on his feet in the haste of leaving the room - like a doe chased by a pack of hounds.

 

*

 

 _September 28_ _ th _ _, 1817_

 

Childermass was sitting in the armchair, reading. He was a fast reader, though his countenance was not scholarly at all. Indeed, at a first glance some people would doubt his ability to read and write, and realise only later that not only could he do both proficiently, but he was often more well-read than any other gentleman in the room. He read the way he did most things: wholly absorbed in the task at hand, with an intensity and dedication which might have set a book on fire.

They must have brought the armchair up from downstairs, while the small table by it came from one of the guest rooms (Miss Greysteel’s, Segundus thought). There was a tea tray on the table, but no sign of food. Such menial details were particularly vivid since he had woken up feeling tremendously hungry, and his mouth felt parched as if he had had a fever. Indeed it took him several moments before he could manage to speak clearly, and even then he did it in a piteous voice he felt immediately ashamed of.

“You’re back.”

He saw Childermass start. He had been so focused on the book in his lap that the look on his face, when he lifted his gaze, was almost shocked. For a moment it looked as if he might leave his seat and hurry to Segundus’s bedside, in a couple of swift, long strides; but something subsided. Childermass rose from the armchair very slowly, his long limbs not quite relaxed - as if he might do something all of a sudden, after all, like leaving the room without a word or upturn the small table into the fireplace. He took the time to set a bookmark in the volume he had been reading, then put the book on the table. He was in his waistcoat, his shirt sleeves rolled up to show his wrists and part of his forearms.  

His expression was unreadable and bore no trace of the initial shock.

“Yes. I’ve been here since the day you threw your spell on the moor.”

Segundus felt that there was much in those few words.

First, he wondered if _here_ simply meant Starecross, because he was under the impression that it might suggest this room in particular. He instinctively guessed, from the tedious weakness in his body and the way his mind was still reeling, that he had not been awake for what felt like a long and worrisome time. Yet he could swear that Childermass had always been there (which was, in a way, the man’s prerogative, together with his equally uncanny art of making himself scarce if he wished so). Childermass’s words also included the suggestion that he had returned to Starecross just in time to witness to Segundus’s failure - his cards, or someone’s prompt, must have let him know what was going on in his absence. And the verb Childermass had chosen was poisoned with irritation: _you threw your spell_ , he had said as if Segundus had thrown his magic away like a pebble in a pond, for the childish pleasure of watching it draw circles in the water.

He saw, too, that Childermass was mightily displeased with him. He might not voice it, but it was right there, his contempt for the workings of Segundus’s mind. It reminded Segundus of another encounter, when he had gone to Hurtfew and seen Childermass in his own room for the first time.

This time they were in Segundus’s room, and he had no delusions nor expectations.

“Do you know me?” Childermass asked, his eyes fixed on Segundus.

He had moved closer, but his posture was not quite steady, as if he might bolt at any moment. He seemed tired, paler than usual, but Segundus was tired and pale as well, and the world felt the same. It was a worn-out world, not in the comfortable, delightfully familiar way of an old and beloved garment; rather in the way a pair of shoes has grown too thin in the soles and plagues its owner with cold and the knowledge of every bump in the road. Therefore Segundus was unsurprised by Childermass’s fatigued look.

“It’s a very complicated question,” Segundus said, a little superciliously.

He thought Childermass would laugh and that it would undo some of his hideous composure. But it did not happen, though there was a softening in the man’s voice.

“I think you’re no longer so sick then,” Childermass replied, as if Segundus’s answer was very typical.

Segundus did not wish to be typical, though. He wrinkled his nose and sniffed a little, before asking, in the most haughty manner he could muster while lying in a bed:

“Was I very sick?”

“Yes.”

Childermass said it in a way suggesting that it had been a wearying business. Segundus coloured, for he had never liked to be something of a burden to anyone, least of all to Childermass. He did not mean to bother him, in any way; he could not stand his disapproval, and was horrified by his mockery.

He thought that if he rose from the bed and showed how well he could manage on his own, Childermass would no longer felt bound to any duty toward him. It was only then, when he tried to sit up, that he noticed.

“Why am I tied to the bed?”

He feared that he had sounded a little frightened. He was not (his thoughts were still too slow for proper panic); mostly he was curious about how he had ever ended up with his wrists bound in cloth, and then tied with two small ropes running to the sides of the bed. It had been done with a certain amount of care, to restrain without inflicting any more discomfort than was strictly necessary. That was, together with his dulled mind, why he had not noticed it before.

“I am sorry for that,” Childermass said, “it was done to prevent you from hurting yourself.”

“That’s ridiculous, you’re the only one hurting me.”

It would be incorrect to say that Segundus had spoken without thinking; in fact, he had thought too much, over the months, about Childermass’s ability to hurt him.

He saw Childermass grow very still, though he did not avert his gaze.

“ _Trust_ ,” Segundus continued, somehow in a more chastened, grave manner, “is a most singular contract, don’t you agree? It means to give someone the capacity to hurt us, while asking them not to do it.”

“So you distrust me,” Childermass replied briskly, “but tell me how your - possibly well placed - distrust has given you reasons to put yourself in danger.”

“Oh, do you think nothing happens in my life except under your influence?!” Segundus cried softly, giving a slight tug at the ropes - now that he knew they were there he was feeling increasingly trapped.

“I think it’s quite suspicious that you get in your head to go out there and summon the damn thing while I’m not around,” Childermass replied through his teeth. “And telling no one about it, doing things in secret...”

“I’m entitled to secrets, just like everyone else!”

“You mean to say _like you, Childermass_.”

“Yes, like you, Childermass. You have your secrets, I shall have mine. But I forget that you are in the habit of spying on my thoughts and plans with your tarots. Did they show you what I was doing?”

“I got an inkling of it from the house, because at least some of its inhabitants have more sense in their heads that you do, sir. The cards told me that you’d be in danger, and I was just in bloody time.”

“I didn’t ask you to rescue me,” Segundus snapped, “and please untie me now!”

Childermass blinked, looked at the ropes and then back at Segundus’s face. He moved swiftly, a small penknife appeared in his hand, and he was already bending on Segundus to cut the knot in the rope when he froze. He swore under his breath, and shook his head, taking a stop back.

“No. We must try you with magic first.” Segundus paled, confused, and it was enough to get Childermass talking some more. “I am sorry, but you may be possessed or...misplaced. I don’t think it’s the case, but I’d rather not to be careless. I suppose you know that your spell did not achieve what I think you tried to do. The two of them are still with the Pillar, wherever it is right now. That’s what you meant to do, isn’t it? Getting rid of the Pillar. I had time to study your spell.”

“How much time?”

“Ten days.”

Segundus swallowed hard. Childermass folded the knife and put it away in the pocket of his waistcoat - what a man, to keep a knife on him the whole time! Segundus had never noticed it before, and wondered if it was a recent habit, or even a precaution Childermass had taken for his watch. It suggested that he expected to need it somehow: Segundus trembled at the thought of what his sickness must have been.  

“I didn’t know.”

“You were unconscious most of the time. You had nightmares, vivid ones. It is a good thing that I have perfected my spell for silence over the years, otherwise no one would have had much sleep during the last ten days.” He paused, and sighed. “I - _we_ had to feed you, and watch upon your sleep. I was not sure that you...”

Since he could not cover his face with his hands, Segundus turned his head and pressed his cheek into the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut. Into the pillow he muttered:

“I’m sorry I have given you all so much trouble. I have never meant to...oh, I’m very sorry!” he repeated, in searing discomfort.

“It is not...” Childermass sounded uncertain. “I think everyone was glad to help. Only we could not know if and when you would wake, it wasn’t the kind of magic we usually deal with. And the cards wouldn’t tell,” he added, with something akin to rage.

 _Against himself_ , Segundus realised, _for he could not see my future_.

“It was the spell’s backlash, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, together with the magic of the Pillar. Everybody felt it for days, I felt...” he stopped, but Segundus could easily imagine what it might have been with Childermass’s deep sensitivity for magic. _I must have sickened him_ , he thought unhappily. “Then it faded away and your nightmares grew less intense, but you kept sleeping and there was no way to rouse you. Sometimes you would...talk,” Childermass said vaguely, with the air that he had heard more than he had wished for. “And sometimes you were not yourself, that’s why I decided you should be tied.”

 _I_ , Childermass had said, taking responsibility. Segundus suspected that it had not been the only decision Childermass had taken during those ten days, and that the rest of the household had done his bidding, bent to his powerful will. He had been, Segundus realised, in Childermass’s capable hands.

“I think I’m not going back to sleep,” Segundus murmured. “Not of that kind. I think I’m well again.”

“I agree, but we must be careful. Allow me to call Mr Levy to examine you.”

“Mr Levy,” Segundus repeated - and then he understood that it was a good choice.

They had agreed on a kind of procedure for cases of magic possession, which included the drawing of blood, several spells to be performed, and questioning the patient as shrewdly as possible. It was a kind of medical visit too, for the magician should also look for tell-tale signs on the patient’s body.  

Mr Purfois would not like it: he liked to manage Vinculus’s nudity least of all them; Mr Hadley-Bright was not so squeamish, but somehow indelicate and prone to being a little too boisterous for any patient’s sake. The ladies could not be called to perform such a task, though surely they must have helped during his illness, even against Childermass’s word (Segundus seemed to remember that he had heard their voices, at times), and besides they would be unable to perform any spell. Lucy Green’s learning was still inferior to her male colleagues’, so she would not do either.

As for John Childermass, well, it might be that he did not wish to touch him.

“You must do as you deem right,” Segundus said, his voice hollow and his eyes to the ceiling.

“It seems that sometimes what I deem right is the wrong choice with you. I thought it would be best to go to London and you almost got yourself killed,” Childermass said bluntly.

“Well, I didn’t.”

Childermass looked at him. He seemed concerned, but it was such a rare emotion on Childermass’s part that Segundus was not sure that it was what he was showing - and then there was always something deeply unreadable in Childermass’s face, like trying to guess the shape of the sea.

“I suppose I must thank you,” Segundus said with difficulty. “For coming to my rescue.”

“Apparently I was the one who put you in danger in the first place.”

“It had nothing to do with you, but I see you mean to belittle my...”

“No, I know you did it for Strange and Mr Norrell,” Childermass interrupted him, impatiently. “I don’t wish to belittle that intention, nor your magic. You’re wrong if you think that I hold you in contempt; I hold you, in fact, in the greatest esteem, though I’m unable to give you proofs of it in a way you can appreciate. I’m sure the fault lies with me. But I also think, and I do not find any pleasure in the thought, that the way I left may have encouraged you to be more reckless and secretive than you usually would be.”

Segundus said nothing. How obsessed he had grown during the summer, looking for a way to break into the spell which trapped Jonathan and Mr Norrell! It was true that he had kept his ideas and his plans a secret from the others: this way he had been able to pour so much of himself in the work to the point that his pain had been dulled in the frenzy of his research and the delights of doing magic.

Childermass had guessed it, and it made Segundus ashamed, for he had acted in a very selfish manner, not considering how the rest of the household would worry and how they might be endangered by his behaviour. He had allowed his private sorrows to obscure his judgement and numb his empathy, then others had had to take care of him and mend the damage he had done.

“I shall...I shall apologise to everyone.”

“If you wish,” Childermass said gently, “though I think they will be happy to see you awake, and greatly reproach me for not having called them in immediately. Do not fret, they won’t be angry at you, except for Lady Pole who shall be utterly delighted to call you a fool to your face. She has practised with me, I can assure you she’s very good at it by now.”

“Are you?” Segundus asked, colouring. “Angry?”

Childermass looked at him.

“I’m enraged,” he said quietly, so very quietly that it hit Segundus like a slap. “I’ll go fetch Mr Levy.”

“Childermass!” Segundus called, though he did not know what for: only the sight of Childermass at the door did not sit well with him. It felt as if Childermass had always been there, on the verge of leaving him.

“I’m sorry I stayed away so long,” Childermass replied, though his hand was on the knob and he was not looking at Segundus anymore. “I didn’t mean to, but then I wasn’t sure you’d be pleased if I returned. I’m glad I was back...in time.” He seemed to shudder at the thought of what would have been if he had _not_ been in time. “Now it’s all right, you’re awake. We shall talk later, when you’re better, if you wish.”

“You won’t,” Segundus began, shivering, “you won’t just leave the house now that I’m awake, will you?”

“No,” Childermass replied, turning his head to look at him. He seemed surprised, and even cautiously pleased by Segundus’s question. “I would if you asked me,” he added.

“I know,” Segundus said, and felt it was very true: Childermass would not remain if he said anything to suggest that his presence was unrequited. “I do not wish to send you away.”

Childermass nodded, just once.


End file.
